THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

GIFT  OF 


JAMES   J.  MC   BRIDE 


\ 


THE  HOUSE  WITH 
THE  GREEN  SHUTTEBS 


WITH    THE 

GREEN   SHUTTERS 

BY 


M9CLURE,   PHILLIPS   &   C9 
1902 


Copyright,  igoi,  by 
McCLURE,   PHILLIPS   &f   CO. 


Eighth  Impression 


PR 


TO 

William  a^apbitt 


^  712508 


THE  HOUSE  WITH 
THE  GEEEN  SHUTTERS 


The  frowsy  chamber-maid  of  the  "  Red  Lion  "  had 
just  finished  washing  the  front  door  steps.  She  rose 
from  her  stooping  posture,  and,  being  of  slovenly  habit, 
flung  the  water  from  her  pail,  straight  out,  without 
moving  from  where  she  stood.  The  smooth  round  arch 
of  the  falling  water  glistened  for  a  moment  in  mid-air. 
John  Gourlay,  standing  in  front  of  his  new  house  at  the 
head  of  the  brae,  could  hear  the  swash  of  it  when  it  fell. 
The  morning  was  of  perfect  stillness. 

The  hands  of  the  clock  across  "  the  Square  "  were 
pointing  to  the  hour  of  eight.  They  were  yellow  in 
the  sun. 

Blowsalinda,  of  the  Eed  Lion,  picked  up  the  big 
bass  that  usually  lay  within  the  porch  and,  carrying  it 
clumsily  against  her  breast,  moved  off  round  the  corner 
of  the  public  house,  her  petticoat  gaping  behind.  Half- 
way she  met  the  ostler  with  whom  she  stopped  in  amor- 
ous dalliance.  He  said  something  to  her,  and  she 
laughed  loudly  and  vacantly.  The  silly  tee-hee  echoed 
up  the  street. 

A  moment  later  a  cloud  of  dust  drifting  round  the 
corner,  and  floating  white  in  the  still  air,  shewed  that 
she  was  pounding  the  bass  against  the  end  of  the  house. 

ri] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GKEEN  SHUTTERS 

All  over  the  little  town  the  women  of  Barbie  were  equally 
busy  with  their  steps  and  door-mats.  There  was  scarce 
a  man  to  be  seen  either  in  the  Square,  at  the  top  of 
which  Gourlay  stood,  or  in  the  long  street  descending 
from  its  near  corner.  The  men  were  at  work;  the  chil- 
dren had  not  yet  appeared;  the  women  were  busy  with 
their  household  cares. 

The  freshness  of  the  air,  the  smoke  rising  thin  and 
far  above  the  red  chimneys,  the  sunshine  glistering  on 
the  roofs  and  gables,  the  rosy  clearness  of  everything 
beneath  the  dawn,  above  all  the  quietness  and  peace,  made 
Barbie,  usually  so  poor  to  see,  a  very  pleasant  place  to 
look  down  at  on  a  summer  morning.  At  this  hour  there 
was  an  unfamiliar  delicacy  in  the  familiar  scene,  a  fresh- 
ness and  purity  of  aspect — almost  an  unearthliness — as 
though  you  viewed  it  through  a  crystal  dream.  But  it 
was  not  the  beauty  of  the  hour  that  kept  Gourlay  musing 
at  his  gate.  He  was  dead  to  the  fairness  of  the  scene, 
even  w^hile  the  fact  of  its  presence  there  before  him 
wove  most  subtly  with  his  mood.  He  smoked  in  silent 
enjoyment  because  on  a  morning  such  as  this,  everything 
he  saw  was  a  delicate  flattery  to  his  pride.  At  the  be- 
ginning of  a  new  day  to  look  down  on  the  petty  burgh 
in  which  he  was  the  greatest  man,  lilled  all  his  being 
with  a  consciousness  of  importance.  His  sense  of  pros- 
perity was  soothing  and  pervasive;  he  felt  it  all  round 
him  like  the  pleasant  air,  as  real  as  that  and  as  subtle; 
bathing  him,  caressing.  It  was  the  most  secret  and  in- 
timate joy  of  his  life  to  go  out  and  smoke  on  summer 
mornings  bv  his  big  gate,  musing  over  Barbie  ere  he 
possessed  it  with  his  merchandise. 

He  had  growled  at  the  quarry  carters  for  being  late  in 

[2] 


CHAPTER   ONE 

setting  out  this  morning  (for  like  most  resolute  dullards 
he  was  sternly  methodical),  but  in  his  heart  he  was 
secretly  pleased.  The  needs  of  his  business  were  so 
various  that  his  men  could  rarely  start  at  the  same  hour, 
and  in  the  same  direction.  To-day,  however,  because  of 
the  delay,  all  his  carts  would  go  streaming  through  the 
town  together,  and  that  brave  pomp  would  be  a  slap  in 
the  face  to  his  enemies.  "  I'll  shew  them,"  he  thought, 
proudly.  "  Them "  was  the  town-folk,  and  what  he 
would  shew  them  was  what  a  big  man  he  was.  For,  like 
most  scorners  of  the  world's  opinion,  Gourlay  was  its 
slave,  and  shewed  his  subjection  to  the  popular  estimate 
by  his  anxiety  to  flout  it.  He  was  not  great  enough 
for  the  carelessness  of  perfect  scorn. 

Through  the  big  green  gate  behind  him  came  the  sound 
of  carts  being  loaded  for  the  day.  A  horse,  weary  of 
standing  idle  between  the  shafts,  kicked  ceaselessly  and 
steadily  against  the  ground  with  one  impatient  hinder 
foot,  clink,  clink,  clink  upon  the  paved  yard.  "  Easy, 
damn  ye;  ye'll  smash  the  bricks!  "  came  a  voice.  Then 
there  was  the  smart  slap  of  an  open  hand  on  a  sleek  neck, 
a  quick  start,  and  the  rattle  of  chains  as  the  horse  quiv- 
ered to  the  blow. 

"Run  a  white  tarpaulin  across  the  cheese,  Jock,  to 
keep  them  frae  melting  in  the  heat,"  came  another 
voice.  "And  canny  on  the  top  there  wi'  thae  big  feet  o' 
yours;  d'ye  think  a  cheese  was  made  for  you  to  dance  on 
wi'your  mighty  brogues?"  Then  the  voice  sank  to  the 
hoarse  warning  whisper  of  impatience;  loudish  in  anx- 
iety, yet  throaty  from  fear  of  being  heard.  "Hurry  up, 
man — hurry  up,  or  he'll  be  down  on  us.  like  bleezes  for 
being  so  late  in  getting  ofF!  " 

[3] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GREEN  SHUTTERS 

Gourlay  smiled,  grimly,  and  a  black  gleam  shot  from 
his  eye  as  he  glanced  round  to  the  gate  and  caught  the 
words.     His  men  did  not  know  he  could  hear  them. 

The  clock  across  the  Square  struck  the  hour,  eight 
soft  slow  strokes,  that  melted  away  in  the  beauty  of  the 
morning.  Five  minutes  passed.  Gourlay  turned  his 
head  to  listen,  but  no  further  sound  came  from  the 
yard.  He  walked  to  the  green  gate,  his  slippers  making 
no  noise. 

"  Are  ye  sleeping,  my  pretty  men?  "  he  said,  softly. 
.  .  .  "Eih?" 

The  "  Eih  "  leapt  like  a  sword,  with  a  slicing  sharp- 
ness in  its  tone,  that  made  it  a  sinister  contrast  to  the 
first  sweet  question  to  his  "  pretty  men."  "  Eih  ?  "  he 
said  again,  and  stared  with  open  mouth  and  fierce  dark 
eyes. 

"  Hurry  up,  Peter,"  whispered  the  gaffer,  "  hurry  up, 
for  Godsake.     He  has  the  black  glower  in  his  e'en." 

"  Ready,  sir;  ready  now!  "  cried  Peter  Riney,  running 
out  to  open  the  other  half  of  the  gate.  Peter  was  a 
wizened  little  man,  with  a  sandy  fringe  of  beard  be- 
neath his  chin,  a  wart  on  the  end  of  his  long,  slanting- 
out  nose,  light  blue  eyes,  and  bushy  eyebrows  of  a  red- 
dish gray.  The  bearded  red  brows,  close  above  the  pale 
blueness  of  his  eyes,  made  them  more  vivid  by  contrast; 
they  were  like  pools  of  blue  light  amid  the  brownness  of 
his  face.  Peter  always  ran  about  his  work  with  eager 
alacrity.  A  simple  and  willing  old  man,  he  affected 
the  quick  readiness  of  youth  to  atone  for  his  insignifi- 
cance. 

"  Hup  horse ;  hup  then ! "  cried  courageous  Peter, 
walking  backwards  with  curved  body  through  the  gate, 

[4] 


CHAPTER  OITE 

and  tugging  at  the  reins  of  a  horse  the  feet  of  which 
struck  sparks  from  the  paved  ground  as  they  stressed 
painfully  on  edge  to  get  weigh  on  the  great  waggon 
behind.  The  cart  rolled  through,  then  another,  and 
another,  till  twelve  of  them  had  passed.  Gourlay  stood 
aside  to  watch  them.  All  the  horses  were  brown;  "  he 
makes  a  point  of  that,"  the  neighbours  would  have  told 
you.  As  each  horse  passed  the  gate  the  driver  left  its 
head,  and  took  his  place  by  the  wheel,  cracking  his 
whip,  with  many  a  "hup  horse;  yean  horse;  woa  lad; 
steady! " 

In  a  dull  little  country  town  the  passing  of  a  single 
cart  is  an  event,  and  a  gig  is  followed  with  the  eye 
till  it  disappears.  Anything  is  welcome  that  breaks 
the  long  monotony  of  the  hours,  and  suggests  a  topic 
for  the  evening's  talk.  "Any  news?"  a  body  will 
gravely  enquire;  "  Ou  aye,"  another  will  answer  with 
equal  gravity,  "  I  saw  Kennedy's  gig  going  past  in  the 
forenoon."  "Aye,  man,  where  would  he  be  off  till? 
He's  owre  often  in  his  gig,  I'm  thinking — "  and  then 
Kennedy  and  his  affairs  will  last  them  till  bedtime. 

Thus  the  appearance  of  Gourlay's  carts  woke  Barbie 
from  its  morning  lethargy.  The  smith  came  out  in  his 
leather  apron,  shoving  back,  as  he  gazed,  the  grimy 
cap  from  his  white-sweating  brow;  bowed  old  men  stood 
in  front  of  their  doorways,  leaning  with  one  hand  on 
short  trembling  staffs,  while  the  slaver  slid  unheeded 
along  the  cutties  which  the  left  hand  held  to  their 
toothless  mouths;  white-mutched  grannies  were  keeking 
past  the  jambs;  an  early  urchin,  standing  wide-legged 
to  stare,  waved  his  cap  and  shouted,  "  Hooray!  " — and 
all  because  John  Gourlay's  carts  were  setting  off  upon 

[5] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GKEEN  SHUTTERS 

their  morniDg  rounds,  a  brave  procession  for  a  single 
town!  Gourlay,  standing  great-shouldered  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  road,  took  in  every  detail,  devoured  it  grimly 
as  a  homage  to  his  pride.  "  Ha!  ha!  ye  dogs,"  said  the 
soul  within  him.  Past  the  pillar  of  the  Red  Lion 
door  he  could  see  a  white  peep  of  the  landlord's  waist- 
coat— though  the  rest  of  the  mountainous  man  was  hid- 
den deep  within  his  porch.  (On  summer  mornings  the 
vast  totality  of  the  landlord  was  always  inferential  to 
the  town  from  the  tiny  white  peep  of  him  revealed.) 
Even  fat  Simpson  had  waddled  to  the  door  to  see  the 
carts  going  past.  It  was  fat  Simpson — might  the  Uni- 
verse blast  his  adipose — who  had  once  tried  to  infringe 
Gourlay's  monopoly  as  the  sole  carrier  in  Barbie. 
There  had  been  a  rush  to  him  at  first,  but  Gourlay  set 
his  teeth  and  drove  him  off  the  road,  carrying  stuff  for 
nothing  till  Simpson  had  nothing  to  carry,  so  that  the 
local  wit  suggested  "a  wee  parcel  in  a  big  cart"  as  a  new 
sign  for  his  hotel.  The  twelve  browns  prancing  past 
would  be  a  pill  to  Simpson!  There  was  no  smile  about 
Gourlay's  mouth — a  fiercer  glower  was  the  only  sign  of 
his  pride — but  it  put  a  bloom  on  his  morning,  he  felt, 
to  see  the  suggestive  round  of  Simpson's  waistcoat,  down 
yonder  at  the  porch.  Simpson,  the  swine!  He  had 
made  short  work  o'  Mm] 

Ere  the  last  of  the  carts  had  issued  from  the  yard  at 
the  House  with  the  Green  Shutters  the  foremost  was 
already  near  the  Red  Lion.  Gourlay  swore  beneath 
his  breath  when  Miss  Toddle — described  in  the  local 
records  as  "  a  spinster  of  independent  means  " — came 
fluttering  out  with  a  silly  little  parcel  to  accost  one  of 
the  carriers.    Did  tlie  auld  fool  mean  to  stop  Andy  Gow 

[6] 


CHAPTER  ONE 

about  her  petty  affairs — and  thus  break  the  line  of  carts 
on  the  only  morning  they  had  ever  been  able  to  go  down 
the  brae  together?  But  no.  Andy  tossed  her  parcel 
carelessly  up  among  his  other  packages,  and  left  her 
bawling  instructions  from  the  gutter,  with  a  porten- 
tous shaking  of  her  corkscrew  curls.  Gourlay's  men 
took  their  cue  from  their  master,  and  were  contemptu- 
ous of  Barbie,  most  unchivalrous  scorners  of  its  old 
maids. 

Gourlay  was  pleased  with  Andy  for  snubbing  Sandy 
Toddle's  sister.  When  he  and  Elshie  Hogg  reached 
the  Cross  they  would  have  to  break  off  from  the  rest  to 
complete  their  loads,  but  they  had  been  down  Main 
Street  over  night  as  usual  picking  up  their  commis- 
sions, and  until  they  reached  the  Bend  o'  the  Brae  it 
was  unlikely  that  any  business  should  arrest  them  now. 
Gourlay  hoped  that  it  might  be  so,  and  he  had  his  de- 
sire, for,  with  the  exception  of  Miss  Toddle,  no  customer 
appeared.  The  teams  went  slowly  down  the  steep  side 
of  the  Square  in  an  unbroken  line,  and  slowly  down 
the  street  leading  from  its  near  corner.  On  the  slope 
the  horses  were  unable  to  go  fast — being  forced  to  stell 
themselves  back  against  the  heavy  propulsion  of  the 
carts  behind;  and  thus  the  procession  endured  for  a 
length  of  time  worthy  its  surpassing  greatness.  Wlien 
it  disappeared  round  the  Bend  o'  the  Brae  the  watching 
bodies  disappeared  too;  the  event  of  the  day  had  passed 
and  vacancy  resumed  her  reign.  The  street  and  the 
Square  lay  empty  to  the  morning  sun.  Gourlay  alone 
stood  idly  at  his  gate,  lapped  in  his  own  satisfaction. 

It  had  been  a  big  morning,  he  felt.  It  was  the  first 
time  for  many  a  year  that  all  his  men,  quarry-men  and 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GEEEN  SHUTTERS 

carriers,  carters  of  cheese  and  carters  of  grain,  had  led 
their  teams  down  the  brae  together  in  the  full  view  of 
his  rivals.  "  I  hope  they  liked  it!  "  he  thought,  and  he 
nodded  several  times  at  the  town  beneath  his  feet,  with 
a  slow  up  and  down  motion  of  the  head,  like  a  man  nod- 
ding grimly  to  his  beaten  enemy.  It  was  as  if  he  said, 
"  See  what  I  have  done  to  ye! " 


[S] 


II 

Only  a  man  of  Gourlay's  brute  force  of  character 
could  have  kept  all  the  carrying  trade  of  Barbie  in  his 
own  hands.  Even  in  these  days  of  railways,  nearly 
every  parish  has  a  pair  of  carriers  at  the  least,  journey- 
ing once  or  twice  a  week  to  the  nearest  town.  In  the 
days  when  Gourlay  was  the  great  man  of  Barbie,  rail- 
ways were  only  beginning  to  thrust  themselves  among 
the  quiet  hills,  and  the  bulk  of  inland  commerce  was 
still  being  drawn  by  horses  along  the  country  roads. 
Yet  Gourlay  was  the  only  carrier  in  the  town.  The 
wonder  is  diminished  when  we  remember  that  it  had 
been  a  decaying  burgh  for  thirty  years,  and  that  its 
trade,  at  the  best  of  times,  was  of  meagre  volume. 
Even  so,  it  w^as  astonishing  that  he  should  be  the  only 
carrier.  If  you  asked  the  natives  how  he  did  it, 
"  Ou,"  they  said,  "  he  makes  the  one  hand  wash  the 
other,  doan't  ye  know?  " — meaning  thereby  that  he  had 
so  many  horses  travelling  on  his  own  business,  that  he 
could  afford  to  carry  other  people's  goods  at  rates  that 
must  cripple  his  rivals. 

"  But  that's  very  stupid,  surely,"  said  a  visitor  once, 
who  thought  of  entering  into  competition.  "  It's  cut- 
ting off  his  nose  to  spite  his  face!  Why  is  he  so  anxious 
to  be  the  only  carrier  in  Barbie  that  he  carries  stuff  for 
next  to  noathing  the  moment  another  man  tries  to  work 
the  roads  ?    It's  a  daft-like  thing  to  do  !  " 

[9] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GEEEN  SHUTTERS 

"  To  be  sure  is't,  to  be  sure  is't!  Just  the  stupeedity 
o'  spite!  Oh,  there  are  thnes  when  Gourlay  makes 
little  or  noathing  from  the  carrying;  but  then,  ye  see,  it 
gies  him  a  fine  chance  to  annoy  folk!  If  you  ask  him  to 
bring  ye  ocht,  '  Oh,'  he  growls,  '  I'll  see  if  it  suits  my 
own  convenience.'  And  ye  have  to  be  content.  He  has 
made  so  much  money  of  late  that  the  pride  of  him's  not 
to  be  endured." 

It  was  not  the  insolence  of  sudden  wealth  however 
that  made  Gourlay  haughty  to  his  neighbors;  it  was  a 
repressiveness  natural  to  the  man  and  a  fierce  contempt 
of  their  scoffing  envy.  But  it  was  true  that  he  had 
made  large  sums  of  money  during  recent  years.  From 
his  father  (who  had  risen  in  the  world)  he  inherited  a 
fine  trade  in  cheese;  also  the  carrying  to  Skeighan  on 
the  one  side  and  Fleckie  on  the  other.  When  he  mar- 
ried Miss  Eichmond  of  Tenshillingland,  he  started  as 
a  corn  broker  with  the  snug  dowry  that  she  brought 
him.  Then,  greatly  to  liis  own  benefit,  he  succeeded 
in  establishing  a  valuable  connection  with  Templand- 
muir. 

It  was  partly  by  sheer  impact  of  character  that  Gour- 
lay obtained  his  ascendancy  over  hearty  and  careless 
Templandmuir,  and  partly  by  a  bluff  joviality  which  he 
— so  little  cunning  in  other  things — knew  to  affect 
among  the  petty  lairds.  The  man  you  saw  trying  to  be 
jocose  with  Templandmuir,  was  a  very  different  being 
from  the  autocrat  who  "  downed  "  his  fellows  in  the 
town.  It  was  all  "  How  are  ye  the  day,  Templand- 
muir? "  and  "  How  d'ye  doo-oo,  Mr.  Gourlay?  "  and  the 
immediate  production  of  the  big  decanter. 

More  than  ten  years  ago  now,  Templandmuir  gave 

[10] 


CHAPTER  TWO 

this  fine  dour  upstanding  friend  of  his  a  twelve-year 
tack  of  the  Eed  Quarry — and  that  was  the  making  of 
Gourlay.  The  quarry  yielded  the  best  building  stone 
in  a  circuit  of  thirty  miles,  easy  to  work  and  hard 
against  wind  and  weather.  When  the  main  line  went 
north  through  Skeighan  and  Poltandie,  there  was  a 
great  deal  of  building  on  the  far  side,  and  Gourlay  sim- 
ply coined  the  money.  He  could  not  have  exhausted 
the  quarry  had  he  tried — he  would  have  had  to  howk 
down  a  hill — but  he  took  thousands  of  loads  from  it  for 
the  Skeighan  folk;  and  the  commission  he  paid  the 
laird  on  each  was  ridiculously  small.  He  built  wooden 
stables  out  on  Templandmuir's  estate — the  Templar 
had  seven  hundred  acres  of  hill  land — and  it  was  there 
the  quarry  horses  generally  stood.  It  was  only  rarely 
— once  in  two  years,  perhaps — that  they  came  into  the 
House  with  the  Green  Shutters.  Last  Saturday  they 
had  brought  several  loads  of  stuff  for  Gourlay's  own  use; 
and  that  is  why  they  were  present  at  the  great  proces- 
sion on  the  Monday  following. 

It  was  their  feeling  that  Gourlay's  success  was  out  of 
all  proportion  to  his  merits  that  made  other  great-men- 
in-a-small-way  so  bitter  against  him.  They  were  an  able 
lot,  and  scarce  one  but  possessed  fifty  times  his  weight 
of  brain.  Yet  he  had  the  big  way  of  doing,  though 
most  of  them  were  well  enough  to  pass.  Had  they  not 
been  aware  of  his  stupidity  they  would  never  have 
minded  his  triumphs  in  the  countryside,  but  they  felt  it 
with  a  sense  of  personal  defeat  that  he — the  donkey,  as 
they  thought  him — should  scoop  every  chance  that  was 
going,  and  leave  them,  the  long-headed  ones,  still  mud- 
dling in  their  old  concerns.     They  consoled  themselves 

.    [11] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GKEEN  SHUTTEKS 

with  sneers,  he  retorted  with  brutal  scorn,  and  the  feud 
kept  increasing  between  them. 

They  were  standing  at  the  Cross,  to  enjoy  their  Satur- 
day at  e'en,  when  Gourlay's  "  quarriers  " — as  the  quarry 
horses  liad  been  named — came  through  the  town  last 
week-end.  There  were  groups  of  bodies  in  the  streets, 
washed  from  toil  to  enjoy  the  quiet  air;  dandering 
slowly  or  gossiping  at  ease;  and  they  all  turned  to  watch 
the  quarriers  stepping  bravely  up,  their  heads  tossing 
to  the  hill.  The  big-men-in-a-small-way  glowered  and 
said  nothing. 

"  I  wouldn't  mind,"  said  Sandy  Toddle  at  last,  "  I 
wouldn't  mind  if  he  weren't  such  a  demned  ess! " 

"  Ess  ?  "  said  the  Deacon  unpleasantly.  He  puck- 
ered his  brow  and  blinked,  pretending  not  to  under- 
stand. 

"  Oh,  a  cuddy,  ye  know,"  said  Toddle,  colouring. 

"  Gourlay'th  stupid  enough,"  lisped  the  Deacon. 
"  We  all  know  that.  But  there'tli  one  thing  to  be  said 
on  hith  behalf.  He's  not  such  a  '  demned  ess  '  as  to  try 
and  thpeak  fancy  English!  " 

When  the  Deacon  was  not  afraid  of  a  man  he 
stabbed  him  straight.  When  he  was  afraid  of  him 
he  stabbed  him  on  the  sly.  He  was  annoyed  by  the 
passing  of  Gourlay's  carts,  and  he  took  it  out  of  Sandy 
Toddle. 

"It's  extr'ornar!  "  blurted  the  Provost  (who  was  a 
man  of  brosey  speech,  large-mouthed  and  fat  of  utter- 
ance). ''It's  extr'ornar.  Yass;  it's  extr'ornar!  I 
mean  the  luck  of  that  man — for  gumption  he  has  noan. 
Noan  whatever!  But  if  the  railway  came  hereaway  I 
wager  Gourlay  would  go  down,"  he  added,  less  in  cer- 

[12] 


CHAPTER   TWO 

tainty  of  knowledge  than  as  prophet  of  the  thing  de- 
sired.    "  I  wager  he'd  go  down,  sirs." 

"  Likely  enough,"  said  Sandy  Toddle;  "  he  wouldn't 
be  quick  enough  to  Jump  at  the  new  way  of  doing." 

"  Moar  than  that !  "  cried  the  Provost,  spite  sharpen- 
ing his  insight,  "moar  than  that!  He'd  be  owre  dour 
to  abandon  the  auld  way.  I'm.  tailing  ye.  He  would 
just  be  left  entirely!  It's  only  those,  like  myself,  who 
approach  him  on  the  town's  affairs  that  know  the  full 
extent  of  his  stupeedity." 

"  Oh,  he's  a  '  demned.  ess,'  "  said  the  Deacon,  rubbing 
it  into  Toddle  and  Gourlay  at  the  same  time. 

"  A-ah,  but  then,  ye  see,  he  has  the  abeelity  that 
comes  from  character,"  said  Johnny  Coe,  who  was  a 
sage  philosopher.  "  For  there  are  two  kinds  of  abeelity, 
don't  ye  understa-and?  There's  a  scattered  abeelity 
that's  of  no  use!  Auld  Eandie  Donaldson  was  good  at 
fifty  different  things,  and  he  died  in  the  poorhouse! 
There's  a  dour  kind  of  abeelity,  though,  that  has 
no  cleverness,  but  just  gangs  tramping  on;  and 
that's " 

"  The  easiest  beaten  by  a  flank  attack,"  said  the  Dea- 
con, snubbing  him. 


[13] 


Ill 

With  the  sudden  start  of  a  man  roused  from  a  day- 
dream Gourlay  turned  from  the  green  gate  and  entered 
the  yard.  Jock  Gilmour,  the  "  orra  "  man,  was  washing 
down  the  legs  of  a  horse  beside  tlie  trough.  It  was  Gour- 
lay's  own  cob,  which  he  used  for  driving  round  the 
countryside.  It  was  a  black — Gourlay  "  made  a  point  " 
of  driving  with  a  black.  "  The  brown  for  sturdiness, 
the  black  for  speed,"  he  would  say,  making  a  maxim  of 
his  whim  to  giye  it  the  sanction  of  a  higher  law. 

Gilmour  was  in  a  wild  temper  because  he  had  been 
forced  to  get  up  at  five  o'clock  in  order  to  turn  several 
hundred  cheeses,  to  prevent  them  bulging  out  of  shape 
owing  to  the  heat,  and  so  becoming  cracked  and  spoiled. 
He  did  not  raise  his  head  at  his  master's  approach. 
And  his  head  being  bent,  the  eye  was  attracted  to  a 
patent  leather  collar  which  he  wore,  glazed  with  black 
and  red  stripes.  It  is  a  collar  much  affected  by  plough- 
men, because  a  dip  in  the  horse-trough  once  a  month 
suffices  for  its  washing.  Between  the  striped  collar 
and  his  hair  (as  he  stooped)  the  sunburned  redness  of 
his  neck  struck  the  eye  vividly — the  cropped  fair  hairs 
on  it  shewing  whitish  on  the  red  skin. 

The  horse  quivered  as  the  cold  water  swashed  about 
its  logs,  and  turned  playfully  to  bite  its  groom.  Gil- 
mour, still  stooping,  dug  his  elbow^  up  beneath  its  ribs. 
The  animal  wheeled  in  anger,  but  Gilmour  ran  to  its 

[U] 


CHAPTER   THREE 

head  with  most  iiumful  blasphemy  and  led  it  to  the 
stable  door.     The  off  hind  leg  was  still  unwashed. 

"Has  the  horse  but  the  three  legs?"  said  Gourlay 
suavely. 

Gilmour  brought  the  horse  back  to  the  trough,  mut- 
tering sullenly. 

"  Were  ye  saying  anything?  "  said  Gourlay.    "  Eih?  " 

Gilmour  sulked  out  and  said  nothing;  and  his  mas- 
ter smiled  grimly  at  the  sudden  redness  that  swelled  his 
neck  and  ears  to  the  verge  of  bursting. 

A  boy,  standing  in  his  shirt  and  trousers  at  an  open 
window  of  the  house  above,  had  looked  down  at  the 
scene  with  craning  interest — ^big-eyed.  He  had  been 
alive  to  every  turn  and  phase  of  it — the  horse's  quiver 
of  delight  and  fear,  his  skittishness,  the  groom's  ill- 
temper,  and  Gourlay's  grinding  will.  Eh,  but  his 
father  was  a  caution!  How  easy  he  had  downed  Jock 
Gilmour!  The  boy  was  afraid  of  his  father  himself, 
but  he  liked  to  see  him  send  other  folk  to  the  right 
about.  For  he  was  John  Gourlay,  too. — Hokey,  but  his 
father  could  down  them! 

Mr.  Gourlay  passed  on  to  the  inner  yard,  which  was 
close  to  the  scullery  door.  The  paved  little  court, 
within  its  high  wooden  walls,  was  curiously  fresh  and 
clean.  A  cock-pigeon  strutted  round,  pufRng  his  gleam- 
ing breast  and  rooketty-cooing  in  the  sun.  Large  clear 
drops  fell  slowly  from  the  spout  of  a  wooden  pump,  and 
splashed  upon  a  flat  stone.  The  place  seemed  to  enfold 
the  stillness.    There  was  a  sense  of  inclusion  and  peace. 

There  is  a  distinct  pleasure  to  the  eye  in  a  quiet  brick 
court  where  everything  is  fresh  and  prim;  in  sunny 
weather  you  can  lounge  in  a  room  and  watch  it  through 

[15] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GREEN  SHUTTERS 

an  open  door,  in  a  kind  of  lazy  dream.  The  boy,  stand- 
ing at  the  window  above  to  let  the  fresh  air  blow  round 
his  neck,  was  alive  to  that  pleasure;  he  was  intensely 
conscious  "of  the  pigeon  swelling  in  its  bravery,  of  the 
clean  yard,  the  dripping  pump,  and  the  great  stillness. 
His  father  on  the  step  beneath  had  a  difEerent  pleasure 
in  the  sight.  The  fresh  indolence  of  morning  was 
round  him  too,  but  it  was  more  than  that  that  kept  him 
gazing  in  idle  happiness.  He  was  delighting  in  the 
sense  of  his  own  property  around  him,  the  most  sub- 
stantial pleasure  possible  to  man.  His  feeling,  deep 
though  it  was,  was  quite  vague  and  inarticulate.  If 
you  had  asked  Gourlay  what  he  was  thinking  of  he 
could  not  have  told  you,  even  if  he  had  been  willing  to 
answer  you  civilly — which  is  most  unlikely.  Yet  his 
whole  being,  physical  and  mental  (physical,  indeed, 
rather  than  mental),  was  surcharged  with  the  feeling 
that  the  fine  buildings  around  him  were  his,  that  he 
had  won  them  by  his  own  effort  and  built  them  large 
and  significant  before  the  world.  He  was  lapped  in  the 
thought  of  it. 

All  men  are  suffused  with  that  quiet  pride  in  looking 
at  the  houses  and  lands  which  they  have  won  by  their 
endeavours — in  looking  at  the  houses  more  than  at  the 
lands,  for  the  house  which  a  man  has  built  seems  to 
express  his  character  and  stand  for  him  before  the 
world,  as  a  sign  of  his  success.  It  is  more  personal  than 
cold  acres,  stamped  with  an  individuality.  All  men 
know  that  soothing  pride  in  the  contemplation  of  their 
own  property.,  But  in  Gourlay's  sense  of  property 
there  was  another  element,  an  element  peculiar  to 
itself,  which  endowed  it  with  its  warmest  glow.     Con- 

[16] 


CHAPTER  THREE 

scious  always  that  he  was  at  a  disadvantage  among  his 
cleverer  neighbours,  who  could  achieve  a  civic  emi- 
nence denied  to  him,  he  felt  nevertheless  that  there 
was  one  means,  a  material  means,  by  which  he  could 
hold  his  own  and  reassert  himself;  by  the  bravery  of 
his  business,  namely,  and  all  the  appointments  thereof 
— among  which  his  dwelling  was  the  chief.  That  was 
why  he  had  spent  so  much  money  on  the  House.  That 
was  why  he  had  such  keen  delight  in  surveying  it. 
Every  time  he  looked  at  the  place  he  had  a  sense  of 
triumph  over  what  he  knew  in  his  bones  to  be  an  ad- 
verse public  opinion.  There  was  anger  in  his  pleasure, 
and  the  pleasure  that  is  mixed  with  anger  often  gives 
the  keenest  thrill.  It  is  the  delight  of  triumph  in 
spite  of  opposition.  Gourlay's  house  was  a  material 
expression  of  that  delight,  stood  for  it  in  stone  and 
lime. 

It  was  not  that  he  reasoned  deliberately  when  he 
built  the  house.  But  every  improvement  that  he  made 
— and  he  was  always  spending  money  on  improvements 
— had  for  its  secret  motive  a  more  or  less  vague  desire 
to  score  off  his  rivals.  "  ThafW  be  a  slap  in  the  face  to 
the  Provost! "  he  smiled,  when  he  planted  his  great 
mound  of  shrubs.  "  There's  noathing  like  that  about 
the  Provost's!     Ha,  ha!  " 

Encased  as  he  was  in  his  hard  and  insensitive  na- 
ture he  was  not  the  man  who  in  new  surroundings  would 
be  quick  to  every  whisper  of  opinion.  But  he  had  been 
born  and  bred  in  Barbie,  and  he  knew  his  townsmen — 
oh,  yes,  he  knew  them.  He  knew^  they  laughed  because 
he  had  no  gift  of  the  gab,  and  could  never  be  Provost, 
or  Bailie,  or  Elder — or  even  Chairman  of  the  Gasworks! 

[17] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GKEEN  SHUTTERS 

Oh,  verra  well,  verra  well;  let  Connal  and  Brodie  and 
Allardyce  have  the  talk,  and  manage  the  town's  affairs 
(he  was  damned  if  they  should  manage  his!) — he,  for 
his  part,  preferred  the  substantial  reality.  He  could 
never  aspire  to  the  Provostship,  but  a  man  with  a  house 
like  that,  he  was  fain  to  think,  could  afford  to  do  with- 
out it.  Oh,  yes;  he  was  of  opinion  he  could  do  without 
it!  It  had  run  him  short  of  cash  to  build  the  place  so 
big  and  braw,  but.  Lord!  it  was  worth  it.  There  wasn't 
a  man  in  the  town  who  had  such  accommodation! 

And  so,  gradually,  his  dwelling  had  come  to  be  a 
passion  of  Gourlay's  life.  It  was  a  by-word  in  the 
place  that  if  ever  his  ghost  was  seen,  it  would  be  haunt- 
ing the  House  with  the  Green  Shutters.  Deacon  Allar- 
dyce, trying  to  make  a  phrase  with  him,  once  quoted 
the  saying  in  his  presence.  "Likely  enough!"  said 
Gourlay.  "  It's  only  reasonable  I  should  prefer  my 
own  house  to  you  rabble  in  the  graveyard!  " 

Both  in  appearance  and  position  the  house  was  a 
worthy  counterpart  of  its  owner.  It  was  a  substantial 
two-story  dwelling,  planted  firm  and  gawcey  on  a  little 
natural  terrace  that  projected  a  considerable  distance 
into  the  Square.  At  the  foot  of  the  steep  little  bank 
shelving  to  the  terrace  ran  a  stone  wall,  of  no  great 
height,  and  the  iron  railings  it  uplifted  were  no  higher 
than  the  sward  within.  Thus  the  whole  house  was  bare 
to  the  view  from  the  ground  up,  nothing  in  front  to 
screen  its  admirable  qualities.  From  each  corner,  be- 
hind, flanking  walls  went  out  to  the  right  and  left,  and 
hid  the  yard  and  the  granaries.  In  front  of  these  walls 
the  dwelling  seemed  to  thrust  itself  out  for  notice.  It 
took  the  eye  of  a  stranger  the  moment  he  entered  the 

[18] 


CHAPTER   THREE 

Square — "  \Miosc  place  is  that?  "  was  his  natural  ques- 
tion. A  house  that  challenges  regard  in  that  way 
should  have  a  gallant  brav.ery  in  its  look;  if  its  aspect  be 
mean,  its  assertive  position  but  directs  the  eye  to  its  in- 
firmities. There  is  something  pathetic  about  a  tall, 
cold,  barn-like  house  set  high  upon  a  brae;  it  cannot 
hide  its  naked  shame;  it  thrusts  its  ugliness  dumbly  on 
your  notice,  a  manifest  blotch  upon  the  world,  a  place 
for  the  winds  to  whistle  round.  But  Gourlay's  house 
was  worthy  its  commanding  station.  A  little  dour  and 
blunt  in  the  outlines  like  Gourlay  himself,  it  drew  and 
satisfied  your  eye  as  he  did. 

And  its  position,  "  cockit  up  there  on  the  brae," 
made  it  the  theme  of  constant  remark,  to  men  because 
of  the  tyrant  who  owned  it,  and  to  women  because  of 
the  poor  woman  who  mismanaged  its  affairs.  "  'Deed, 
I  don't  wonder  that  gurly  Gourlay,  as  they  ca'  him,  has 
an  ill  temper,"  said  the  gossips  gathered  at  the  pump, 
with  their  big  bare  arms  akimbo;  "  whatever  led  him  to 
marry  that  dishclout  of  a  woman  clean  beats  me!  I 
never  could  make  head  nor  tail  o't!  "  As  for  the  men, 
they  twisted  every  item  about  Gourlay  and  his  domicile 
into  fresh  matter  of  assailment.  "  What's  the  news?  " 
asked  one,  returning  from  a  long  absence — to  whom  the 
smith,  after  smoking  in  silence  for  five  minutes,  said, 
"  Gourlay  has  got  new  rones!  "  "  Ha — aye,  man,  Gour- 
lay has  got  new  rones! "  buzzed  the  visitor,  and 
then  their  eyes,  diminished  in  mirth,  twinkled  at  each 
other  from  out  their  ruddy  wrinkles,  as  if  wit  had  vol- 
leyed between  them.  In  short,  the  House  with  the 
Green  Shutters  was  on  every  tongue — and  with  a  scoff 
in  the  voice  if  possible. 

[  19  ] 


IV 

GouELAY  went  swiftly  to  the  kitchen  from  the  inner 
yard.  He  had  stood  so  long  in  silence  on  the  step,  and 
his  coming  was  so  noiseless,  that  he  surprised  a  long 
thin  trollop  of  a  woman,  with  a  long  thin  scraggy  neck, 
seated  by  the  slatternly  table,  and  busy  with  a  frowsy 
paper-covered  volume,  over  which  her  head  was  bent 
in  intent  perusal. 

"  At  your  novelles?  "  said  he.  "  Aye,  woman;  will  it 
be  a  good  story?  " 

She  rose  in  a  nervous  flutter  when  she  saw  him;  yet 
needlessly  shrill  in  her  defence,  because  she  was  angry 
at  detection. 

"  Ah,  well !  "  she  cried,  in  weary  petulance,  "  it's  an 
unco  thing  if  a  body's  not  to  have  a  moment's  rest  after 
such  a  morning's  darg!  I  just  sat  down  wi'  the  book 
for  a  little,  till  John  should  come  till  his  breakfast! " 

"So?"  said  Gourlay. 

"  God  aye!  "  he  went  on,  "  you're  making  a  nice  job  of 
Jiim.  He'll  be  a  credit  to  the  House.  Oh,  it's  right, 
no  doubt,  that  you  should  neglect  your  work  till  Jie  con- 
sents to  rise." 

"  Eh,  the  puir  la-amb,"  she  protested,  dwelling  on  the 
vowels  in  fatuous  maternal  love,  "  the  bairn's  wea- 
ried, man!  He's  ainy thing  but  strong,  and  the  school- 
ing's owre  sore  on  him." 

[30] 


CHAPTER  FOUR 

"  Poor  lamb,  atweel,"  said  Gourlay.  "  It  was  a 
muckle  sheep  that  dropped  him." 

It  was  Gourlay's  pride  in  his  house  that  made  him 
harsher  to  his  wife  than  others,  since  her  sluttishness 
was  a  constant  offence  to  the  order  in  which  he  loved  to 
have  his  dear  possessions.  He,  for  his  part,  liked  every- 
thing precise.  His  claw-toed  hammer  always  hung  by 
the  head  on  a  couple  of  nails  close  together  near  the 
big  clock;  his  gun  always  lay  across  a  pair  of  wooden 
pegs,  projecting  from  the  brown  rafters,  just  above  the 
hearth.  His  bigotry  in  trifles  expressed  his  character. 
Strong  men  of  a  mean  understanding  often  deliberately 
assume,  and  passionately  defend,  peculiarities  of  no  im- 
portance, because  they  have  nothing  else  to  get  a  repute 
for.  "  No,  no,"  said  Gourlay;  "  you'll  never  see  a 
brown  cob  in  my  gig — I  wouldn't  take  one  in  a  present!" 
He  was  full  of  such  fads,  and  nothing  should  persuade 
him  to  alter  the  crotchets,  which,  for  want  of  something 
better,  he  made  the  marks  of  his  dour  character.  He 
had  worked  them  up  as  part  of  his  personality,  and  his 
pride  of  personality  was  such  that  he  would  never  con- 
sent to  change  them.  Hence  the  burly  and  gurly  man 
was  prim  as  an  old  maid  with  regard  to  his  belongings. 
Yet  his  wife  was  continually  infringing  the  order  on 
which  he  set  his  heart.  If  he  went  forward  to  the  big 
clock  to  look  for  his  hammer,  it  was  sure  to  be  gone — 
the  two  bright  nails  staring  at  him  vacantly.  "  Oh,"  she 
would  say  in  weary  complaint,  "  I  just  took  it  to  break  a 
wheen  coals  "; — and  he  would  find  it  in  the  coal-hole, 
greasy  and  grimy  finger-marks  engrained  on  the  handle 
which  he  loved  to  keep  so  smooth  and  clean.  Innumer- 
able her  offences  of  the  kind.     Independent  of  these, 

[21] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GREEN  SHUTTERS 

the  sight  of  her  general  incompetence  filled  him  with  a 
seething  rage,  which  found  vent  not  in  lengthy  tirades 
but  the  smooth  venom  of  his  tongue.  Let  him  keep  the 
outside  of  the  House  never  so  spick  and  span,  inside  was 
awry  with  her  untidiness.  She  was  unworthy  of  the 
House  with  the  Green  Shutters — that  was  the  gist  of  it. 
Every  time  he  set  eyes  on  the  poor  trollop,  the  fresh 
perception  of  her  incompetence  which  the  sudden  sight 
of  her  flashed,  as  she  trailed  aimlessly  about,  seemed  to 
fatten  his  rage  and  give  a  coarser  birr  to  his  tongue. 

Mrs.  Gourlay  had  only  four  people  to  look  after,  her 
husband,  her  two  children,  and  Jock  Gilmour,  the 
orra  man.  And  the  wife  of  Dru'cken  Wabster — wlio 
had  to  go  charing  because  she  was  the  wife  of  Dru'cken 
Wabster — came  in  every  day,  and  all  day  long,  to  help 
her  with  the  work.  Yet  the  house  was  always  in  confu- 
sion. Mrs.  Gourlay  had  asked  for  another  servant,  but 
Gourlay  would  not  allow  that;  "  one's  enough,"  said  he_, 
and  what  he  once  laid  down,  he  never  went  back  on. 
Mrs.  Gourlay  had  to  muddle  along  as  best  she  could, 
and  having  no  strength  either  of  mind  or  body,  she  let 
tilings  drift  and  took  refuge  in  reading  silly  fiction. 

As  Gourlay  shoved  his  feet  into  his  boots,  and 
stamped  to  make  them  easy,  he  glowered  at  the  kitchen 
from  under  his  heavy  brows  with  a  huge  disgust.  The 
table  was  littered  with  unwashed  dishes,  and  on  the  cor- 
ner of  it  next  him  was  a  great  black  sloppy  ring,  show- 
ing where  a  wet  saucepan  had  been  laid  upon  the  bare 
board.  The  sun  streamed  through  the  window  in  yel- 
low heat  right  on  to  a  pat  of  melting  butter.  There 
was  a  basin  of  dirty  water  beneath  the  table,  with  the 
dishcloth  slopping  over  on  the  ground. 

[22] 


CHAPTER  FOUR 

"  It's  a  tidy  house!  "  said  he. 

"  Aeh  well/'  she  cried,  "  you  and  your  kitchen-range! 
It  was  that  that  did  it!  The  masons  could  have  redd 
out  the  fireplace  to  make  room  for't  in  the  afternoon 
before  it  comes  hame.  They  could  have  done't  brawly, 
but  ye  wouldna  hear  o't — oh,  no — ye  bude  to  have  the 
whole  place  gutted  out  yestreen.  I  had  to  boil  every- 
thing on  the  parlour  fire  this  morning — no  wonder  Fm 
a  little  tousy! " 

The  old  fashioned  kitchen  grate  had  been  removed 
and  the  jambs  had  been  widened  on  each  side  of  the  fire- 
place; it  yawned,  empty  and  cold.  A  little  rubble  of 
mortar,  newly  dried,  lay  about  the  bottom  of  the  square 
recess.  The  sight  of  the  crude,  unfamiliar  scraps  of 
dropped  lime  in  the  gaping  place  where  warmth  should 
have  been,  increased  the  discomfort  of  the  kitchen. 

"Oh,  that's  it!"  said  Gourlay.  "1  see!  It  was 
want  of  the  fireplace  that'  kept  ye  from  washing  the 
dishes  that  we  used  yestreen.  That  was  terrible  !  How- 
ever, ye'll  have  plenty  of  boiling  water  when  I  put  in 
the  grand  new  range  for  ye;  there  winna  be  its  equal 
in  the  parish!    We'll  maybe  have  a  clean  house  than.'" 

Mrs.  Gourlay  leaned,  with  the  outspread  thumb  and 
red  raw  knuckles  of  her  right  hand,  on  the  sloppy  table, 
and  gazed  away  through  the  back  window  of  the  kitchen 
in  a  kind  of  mournful  vacancy.  Always  when  her  first 
complaining  defence  had  failed  to  turn  aside  her  hus- 
band's tongue,  her  mind  became  a  blank  beneath  his 
heavy  sarcasms,  and  sought  refuge  by  drifting  far  away. 
She  would  fix  her  eyes  on  the  distance  in  dreary  con- 
templation, and  her  mind  would  follow  her  eyes,  in  a 
vacant  and  wistful  regard.     The  preoccupation  of  her 

[23] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GREEN  SHUTTERS 

mournful  gaze  enabled  her  to  meet  her  husband's  sneers 
with  a  kind  of  numb  unheeding  acquiescence.  She 
scarcely  heard  them. 

Her  head  hung  a  little  to  one  side  as  if  too  heavy 
for  her  wilting  neck.  Her  hair,  of  a  dry  red  brown, 
curved  low  on  either  side  of  her  brow,  in  a  thick  un- 
tidy mass,  to  her  almost  transparent  ears.  As  she 
gazed  in  weary  and  dreary  absorption  her  lips  had  fallen 
heavy  and  relaxed,  in  unison  with  her  mood;  and 
through  her  open  mouth  her  breathing  was  quick,  and 
short,  and  noiseless.  She  wore  no  stays,  and  her  slack 
cotton  blouse  shewed  the  flatness  of  her  bosom,  and 
the  faint  outlines  of  her  withered  and  pendulous  breasts 
hanging  low  within. 

There  was  something  tragic  in  her  pose,  as  she  stood, 
sad  and  abstracted,  by  the  dirty  table.  She  was  scraggy 
helplessness,  staring  in  sorrowful  vacancy.  But  Gour- 
lay  eyed  her  with  disgust — why,  by  Heaven,  even  now 
her  petticoat  was  gaping  behind,  worse  than  the  sloven's 
at  the  Red  Lion.  She  was  a  pr-r-retty  wife  for  John 
Oourlay!  The  sight  of  her  feebleness  would  have 
roused  pity  in  some:  Gourlay  it  moved  to  a  steady  and 
seething  rage.  As  she  stood  helpless  before  him  he 
stung  her  with  crude,  brief  irony. 

Yet  he  was  not  wilfully  cruel ;  only  a  stupid  man  with 
a  strong  character,  in  which  he  took  a  dogged  pride. 
Stupidity  and  pride  provoked  the  brute  in  him.  He 
was  so  dull — only  dull  is  hardly  the  word  for  a  man 
of  his  smouldering  fire — he  was  so  dour  of  wit  that 
he  could  never  hope  to  distinguish  himself  by  any- 
thing in  the  shape  of  cleverness.  Yet  so  resolute  a 
man  must  make  tbe  strong  personality  of  which  he  was 

[34] 


CHAPTER  FOUR 

proud,  tell  in  some  way.  How,  then,  should  he  assert 
his  superiority  and  hold  his  own?  Only  by  affecting 
a  brutal  scorn  of  everything  said  and  done  unless  it 
was  said  and  done  by  John  Gourlay.  His  lack  of  un- 
derstanding made  his  affectation  of  contempt  the  easier. 
A  man  can  never  sneer  at  a  thing  which  he  really 
understands.  Gourlay,  understanding  nothing,  was  able 
to  sneer  at  everything.  "Hah!  I  don't  understand 
that;  it's  damned  nonsense!" — that  was  his  attitude  to 
life.  If  "  that  "  had  been  an  utterance  of  Shakespeare 
or  Napoleon  it  would  have  made  no  difference  to  John 
Gourlay.  It  would  have  been  damned  nonsense  just 
the  same.  And  he  would  have  told  them  so,  if  he  had 
met  them. 

The  man  had  made  dogged  scorn  a  principle  of  life 
to  maintain  himself,  at  the  height  which  his  courage 
warranted.  His  thickness  of  wit  was  never  a  bar  to 
the  success  of  his  irony.  For  the  irony  of  the  ignorant 
Scot  is  rarely  the  outcome  of  intellectual  qualities.  It 
depends  on  a  falsetto  voice  and  the  use  of  a  recognized 
number  of  catchwords.  "  Dee-ee-ar  me,  dee-ee-ar  me  "; 
"Just  so-a,  just  so-a ";  "  Im-phm!  "  "D'ye  tell  me 
that?  "  "  Wonderful,  serr,  wonderful  ";  "  Ah,  well, 
may-ay-be,  may-ay-be," — these  be  words  of  potent  irony 
when  uttered  with  a  certain  birr.  Long  practice  had 
made  Gourlay  an  adept  in  their  use.  He  never  spoke  to 
those  he  despised  or  disliked,  without  "  the  birr."  Not 
that  he  was  voluble  of  speech;  he  wasn't  clever  enough 
for  lengthy  abuse.  He  said  little  and  his  voice  was 
low,  but  every  word  from  the  hard,  clean  lips  was  a 
stab.  And  often  his  silence  was  more  withering  than 
any  utterance.    It  struck  life  like  a  black  frost. 

[25] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GEEEN  SHUTTEKS 

In  those  early  days,  to  be  sure,  Gourlay  had  less  occa- 
sion for  the  use  of  his  crude  but  potent  irony,  since  the 
sense  of  his  material  well-being  warmed  him  and  made 
him  less  bitter  to  the  world.  To  the  substantial  farm- 
ers and  petty  squires  around  he  was  civil,  even  hearty, 
in  his  manner — unless  they  offended  him.  For  they 
belonged  to  the  close  corporation  of  "  bien  men,"  and 
his  familiarity  with  them  was  a  proof  to  the  world  of 
his  greatness.  Others,  again,  were  far  too  far  beneath 
him  already  for  him  to  "down"  them.  He  reserved 
his  jibes  for  his  immediate  foes,  the  assertive  bodies 
his  rivals  in  the  town — and  for  his  wife,  who  was  a 
constant  eyesore.  As  for  her,  he  had  baited  the  poor 
woman  so  long  that  it  had  become  a  habit;  he  never 
spoke  to  her  without  a  sneer.  "  Aye,  where  have  you 
been  stravaiging  to?"  he  would  drawl,  and  if  she  an- 
swered meekly,  "  I  was  taking  a  dander  to  the  linn 
owre-bye," ' "  The  linn!"  he  would  take  her  up;  "ye 
had  a  heap  to  do  to  gang  there;  your  Bible  would  fit 
you  better  on  a  bonny  Sabbath  afternune! "  Or  it 
might  be:  "What's  that  you're  burying  your  nose  in 
now?  "  and  if  she  faltered,  "  It's  the  Bible,"  "  Hi!  "  he 
would  laugh,  "  you're  turning  godly  in  your  auld  age. 
Weel,  I'm  no  saying  but  it's  time." 

"Where's  Janet?"  he  demanded,  stamping  his  boots 
once  more,  now  he  had  them  laced. 

"  Eh?  "  said  his  wife  vaguely,  turning  her  eyes  from 
the  window.     "Wha-at?" 

"  Ye're  not  turning  deaf,  I  hope.  I  was  asking  ye 
where  Janet  was." 

"  I  sent  her  down  to  Scott's  for  a  can  o'  milk/'  she 
answered  him  wearily. 

[26] 


CHAPTER  FOUR 

"  No  doubt  je  had  to  send  her,"  said  he.  "  What 
ails  the  lamb  that  ye  couldna  send  him?     Eh?" 

"  Oh,  she  was  about  when  I  wanted  the  milk,  and 
she  volunteered  to  gang.  Man,  it  seems  I  never  do  a 
thing  to  please  ye!  What  harm  Avill  it  do  her  to  run 
for  a  drop  milk?  " 

"  Noan,"  he  said  gravely,  "  noan.  And  it's  right,  no 
doubt,  that  her  brother  should  still  be  a-bed — oh,  it';^ 
right  that  he  should  get  the  privilege — seeing  he's  the 
eldest!" 

Mrs.  Gourlay  Avas  wdiat  the  Scotch  call  "  browdened  * 
on  her  boy."  In  spite  of  her  slack  grasp  on  life — per- 
haps, because  of  it — she  clung  with  a  tenacious  fond- 
ness to  him.  He  was  all  she  had,  for  Janet  was  a 
thowless  f  thing,  too  like  her  mother  for  her  mother  to 
like  her.  And  Gourlay  had  discovered  that  it  was  one 
way  of  getting  at  his  wife  to  be  hard  upon  the  thing 
she  loved.  In  his  desire  to  nag  and  annoy  her,  he 
adopted  a  manner  of  hardness  and  repression  to  his 
son — which  became  permanent.  He  was  always 
"  down "  on  John.  The  more  so  because  Janet  was 
his  own  favourite — perhaps,  again,  because  her  mother 
seemed  to  neglect  her.  Janet  was  a  very  unlovely 
child,  with  a  long  tallowy  face  and  a  pimply  brow,  over 
which  a  stiff  fringe  of  wdiitish  hair  came  down  almost 
to  her  staring  eyes,  the  eyes  themselves  being  large, 
pale  blue,  and  saucer-like,  with  a  great  margin  of  un- 
healthy white.  But  Gourlay,  though  he  never  petted 
her,  had  a  silent  satisfaction  in  his  daughter.    He  took 

*  Browdened:     a  Scot  devoted  to  his  children  is  said  to  be 
"browdened  on  his  bairns." 
f  Tltowlesfi,  weak,  nseless. 

[27] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GREEN  SHUTTERS 

her  about  with  him  in  the  gig,  on  Saturday  afternoons, 
when  he  went  to  buy  cheese  and  grain  at  the  outlying 
farms.  And  he  fed  lier  rabbits  when  she  had  the  fever. 
It  was  a  curious  sight  to  see  the  dour  silent  man  mixing 
oatmeal  and  wet  tea-leaves  in  a  saucer  at  the  dirty  kitch- 
en-table, and  then  marching  off  to  the  hutch,  with  the 
ridiculous  dish  in  his  hand,  to  feed  his  daughter's  pets. 

A  sudden  yell  of  pain  and  alarm  rang  through  the 
kitchen.    It  came  from  the  outer  yard. 

When  the  boy,  peering  from  the  window  above,  saw 
his  father  disappear  through  the  scullery  door,  he  stole 
out.    The  coast  was  clear  at  last. 

He  passed  through  to  the  outer  yard.  Jock  Gilmour 
had  been  dashing  water  on  the  paved  floor,  and  was 
now  sweeping  it  out  with  a  great  whalebone  besom. 
The  hissing  whalebone  sent  a  splatter  of  dirty  drops 
showering  in  front  of  it.  John  set  his  bare  feet  wide 
(he  was  only  in  his  shirt  and  knickers)  and  eyed  the 
man  whom  his  father  had  "  downed  "  with  a  kind  of 
silent  swagger.  He  felt  superior.  His  pose  was  in- 
stinct with  the  feeling:  "  My  father  is  your  master,  and 
ye  daurna  stand  up  till  him."  Children  of  masterful 
sires  often  display  that  attitude  towards  dependants. 
The  feeling  is  not  the  less  real  for  being  subconscious, 

Jock  Gilmour  was  still  seething  with  a  dour  anger 
because  Gourlay's  quiet  will  had  ground  him  to  the 
task.  When  John  came  out  and  stood  there,  he  felt 
tempted  to  vent  on  him,  the  spite  he  felt  against  his 
father.  The  subtle  suggestion  of  criticism  and  superi- 
ority in  tlie  boy's  pose  intensified  the  wish.  Not  that 
Gilmour  acted  from   deliberate   malice;  his   irritation 

[28] 


CHAPTER   FOUR 

was  instinctive.  Our  wrath  against  those  whom  we 
fear  is  generally  wreaked  upon  those  whom  we  don't. 

John,  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  strutted  across 
the  yard,  still  watching  Gilmour  with  that  silent  offen- 
sive look.  He  came  into  the  path  of  the  whalebone. 
"  Get  out,  you  smeowt!  "  cried  Gilmour,  and  with  a 
vicious  shove  of  the  brush  he  sent  a  shower  of  dirty 
drops  spattering  about  the  boy's  bare  legs. 

"Hallo  you!  what  are  ye  after?"  bawled  the  boy. 
"  Don't  you  try  that  on  again,  I'm  telling  ye.  What  are 
you,  onyway.  Ye're  just  a  servant.  Hay-ay-ay,  my 
man,  my  faithcr's  the  boy  for  ye.  He  can  put  ye  in  your 
place." 

Gilmour  made  to  go  at  him  with  the  head  of  the 
whalebone  besom.  John  stooped  and  picked  up  the 
wet  lump  of  cloth  with  which  Gilmour  had  been  wash- 
ing down  the  horse's  legs. 

"  Would  ye  ?  "  said  Gilmour,  threateningly. 

"Would  I  no?"  said  John,  the  wet  lump  poised  for 
throwing,  level  with  his  shoulder. 

But  he  did  not  throw  it  for  all  his  defiant  air.  He 
hesitated.  He  would  have  liked  to  slash  it  into  Gil- 
mour's  face,  but  a  swift  vision  of  what  would  happen 
if  he  did,  withheld  his  craving  arm.  His  irresolution 
was  patent  in  his  face;  in  his  eyes  there  was  both  a 
threat  and  a  watchful  fear.  He  kept  the  dirty  cloth 
poised  in  mid-air. 

"  Drap  the  clout,'  said  Gilmour. 

"  I'll  no,"  said  John. 

Gilmour  turned  sideways  and  whizzed  the  head  of 
the  besom  round  so  that  its  dirty  spray  rained  in  the 
boy's  face  and  eyes.    John  let  him  have  the  wet  lump 

[29] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GREEN  SHUTTERS 

slash  in  his  mouth.  Gilmour  dropped  the  besom  and 
hit  him  a  sounding  thwack  on  the  ear.  John  hulla- 
balooed.     Murther  and  desperation! 

Ere  he  had  gathered  breath  for  a  second  roar  his 
mother  was  present  in  the  yard.  She  was  passionate  in 
defence  of  her  cub,  and  rage  transformed  her.  Her 
tense  frame  vibrated  in  anger;  you  would  scarce  have 
recognised  the  weary  trollop  of  the  kitchen. 

*'  What's  the  matter,  Johnny  dear?  "  she  cried,  with 
a  fierce  glance  at  Gilmour. 

"Gilmour  hut  me!"  he  bellowed  angrily. 

"  Ye  muckle  lump! "  she  cried  shrilly,  the  two 
scraggy  muscles  of  her  neck  standing  out  long  and 
thin  as  she  screamed;  "  ye  muckle  lump — to  strike  a 
defenceless  wean! — Dinna  greet,  my  lamb,  I'll  no  let 
him  meddle  ye. — Jock  Gilmour,  how  daur  ye  lift  your 
finger  to  a  wean  of  mine.  But  I'll  learn  ye  the  better 
o't!  Mr.  Gourlay'll  gie  you  the  order  to  travel  ere  the 
day's  muckle  aulder.  I'll  have  no  servant  about  mtj 
hoose  to  ill-use  my  bairn." 

She  stopped,  panting  angrily  for  breath,  and  glared 
at  her  darling's  enemy. 

"  Your  servant ! "  cried  Gilmour  in  contempt. 
"  Ye're  a  nice-looking  object  to  talk  about  servants." 
He  pointed  at  her  slovenly  dress  and  burst  into  a  bla- 
tant laugh:  "Huh,  huh,  huh!" 

Mr.  Gourlay  had  followed  more  slowly  from  the 
kitchen  as  befitted  a  man  of  his  superior  character. 
He  heard  the  row  well  enough,  but  considered  it  be- 
neath him  to  hasten  to  a  petty  squabble. 

"What's  this?"  he  demanded,  with  a  widening  look. 
Gilmour  scowled  at  the  crpound. 


CHAPTER  FOUR 

"This!"  shrilled  Mrs.  Gourlay,  who  had  recovered 
her  breath  again;  "  this!  Look  at  him  there,  the 
muckle  slabber,"  and  she  pointed  to  Gilmour  who  was 
standing  with  a  red-lowering,  downcast  face ;  "  look 
at  him!  A  man  of  that  size  to  even  himsell  to  a 
wean! " 

"  He  deserved  a'  he  got,"  said  Gilmour  sullenly. 
"  His  mother  spoils  him  at  ony  rate.  And  I'm  damned 
if  the  best  Gourlay  that  ever  dirtied  leather's  gaun  to 
trample  owre  me." 

Gourlay  jumped  round  with  a  quick  start  of  the 
whole  body.  For  a  full  minute  he  held  Gilmour  in  the 
middle  of  his  steady  glower. 

"  Walk,"  he  said,  pointing  to  the  gate. 

"  Oh,  I'll  walk,"  bawled  Gilmour,  screaming  now 
that  anger  gave  him  courage.  "  Gie  me  time  to  get 
my  kist,  and  I'll  walk  mighty  quick.  And  damned 
glad  I'll  be,  to  get  redd  o'  you  and  your  hoose.  The 
Hoose  wi'  the  Green  Shutters,"  he  laughed,  "hi,  hi,  hi! 
the  Hoose  wi'  the  Green  Shutters!" 

Gourlay  went  slowly  up  to  him,  opening  his  eyes  on 
him  black  and  wide.  "  You  swine!  "  he  said  with  quiet 
vehemence;  "  for  damned  little  I  would  kill  ye  wi'  a 
glower! "    Gilmour  shrank  from  the  blaze  in  his  eyes. 

"  Oh,  dinna  be  fee-ee-ared,"  said  Gourlay  quietly, 
"  dinna  be  fee-ee-ared.  I  wouldn't  dirty  my  hand  on 
'ee!  But  get  your  bit  kist,  and  I'll  see  ye  off  the  prem- 
ises.    Suspeecious  characters  are  worth  the  watching." 

"  Suspeecious! "  stuttered  Gilmour,  "suspeecious! 
Wh-wh-whan  was  I  ever  suspeecious  ?  I'll  have  the  law 
of  ye  for  that.    I'll  make  ye  answer  for  your  wor-rds." 

"  Imphm!  "  said  Gourlay.     "  In  the  meantime,  look 

[31] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GEEEN  SHUTTERS 

slippy  wi'  that  bit  box  o'  yours.  I  don't  like  daft  folk 
about  my  hoose." 

"  There'll  be  dafter  folk  as  me  in  your  hoose  yet," 
spluttered  Gilmour  angrily  as  he  turned  away. 

He  went  up  to  the  garret  where  he  slept  and  brought 
down  his  trunk.  As  he  passed  through  the  scullery, 
bowed  beneath  the  clumsy  burden  on  his  left  shoulder, 
John,  recovered  from  his  sobbing,  mocked  at  him. 

"  Hay-ay-ay,"  he  said,  in  throaty  derision,  "  my  fai- 
ther's  the  boy  for  ye.  Yon  was  the  way  to  put  ye 
down! " 


[32] 


V 

In  every  little  Scotch  community  there  is  a  distinct 
type  known  as  "  the  bodie."  "  What  does  he  do,  that 
man  ?  "  you  may  ask,  and  the  answer  will  be,  "  Really, 
I  could  hardly  tell  ye  what  he  does — he's  juist  a  bodie!  " 
The  "  bodie "  may  be  a  gentleman  of  independent 
means  (a  hundred  a  year  from  the  Funds)  fussing  about 
in  spats  and  light  check  breeches;  or  he  may  be  a  job- 
bing gardener;  but  he  is  equally  a  "  bodie."  The  chief 
occupation  of  his  idle  hours  (and  his  hours  are  chiefly 
idle)  is  the  discussion  of  his  neighbour's  affairs.  He  is 
generally  an  "  auld  residenter ";  great,  therefore,  at 
the  redding  up  of  pedigrees.  He  can  tell  you  exactly, 
for  instance,  how  it  is  that  young  Pin-oe's  taking  geyly 
to  the  dram :  for  his  grandfather,  it  seems,  was  a  ter- 
rible man  for  the  drink — ou,  just  terrible — why,  he 
went  to  bed  with  a  full  jar  of  whiskey  once,  and  when 
he  left  it,  he  was  dead,  and  it  was  empty.  So  ye  see, 
that's  the  reason  o't. 

The  genus  "bodie"  is  divided  into  two  species:  the 
"  harmless  bodies "  and  the  "  nesty  bodies."  The 
bodies  of  Barbie  mostly  belonged  to  the  second  variety. 
Johnny  Coe,  and  Tam  Wylie,  and  the  baker,  were  de- 
cent enough  fellows  in  their  way,  but  the  others  were 
the  sons  of  scandal.  Gourlay  spoke  of  them  as  a 
"  wheen  damned  auld  wives." — But  Gourlay,  to  be  sure, 
was  not  an  impartial  witness. 

[33] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GREEN  SHUTTERS 

The  Bend  o'  the  Brae  was  the  favourite  stance  of  the 
bodies;  here  they  foregathered  every  day  to  pass  judg- 
ment on  the  town's  affairs.  And,  indeed,  the  place  had 
many  things  to  recommend  it.  Among  the  chief  it  was 
within  an  easy  distance  of  the  Eed  Lion,  farther  up 
the  street,  to  which  it  was  really  very  convenient  to 
adjourn  nows  and  nans.  Standing  at  the  Bend  o'  the 
Brae,  too,  you  could  look  along  two  roads  to  the  left 
and  right,  or  down  upon  the  Cross  beneath,  and  the 
three  low  streets  that  guttered  away  from  it.  Or  you 
might  turn  and  look  up  Main  Street,  and  past  the  side 
of  the  Square,  to  the  House  with  the  Green  Shutters, 
the  highest  in  the  town.  The  Bend  o'  the  Brae,  you 
will  gather,  was  a  fine  post  for  observation.  It  had 
one  drawback,  true;  if  Gourlay  turned  to  the  right 
in  his  gig  he  disappeared  in  a  moment,  and  you  could 
never  be  sure  where  he  was  off  to.  But  even  that 
afforded  matter  for  pleasing  speculation  which  often 
lasted  half  an  hour. 

It  was  about  nine  o'clock  when  Gourlay  and  Gilmour 
quarrelled  in  the  yard,  and  that  was  the  hour  when  the 
bodies  foregathered  for  their  morning  dram. 

"  Good  moarning,  Mr.  Wylie!  "  said  the  Provost. — 
When  the  Provost  wished  you  good  morning,  with 
a  heavy  civic  eye,  you  felt  sure  it  was  going  to  be 
good. 

"  Mornin',  Provost,  mornin'!  Fine  weather  for  the 
fields,"  said  Tam,  casting  a  critical  glance  at  the  blue 
dome  in  which  a  soft  white-bosomed  cloud  floated  high 
above  the  town.  "  If  this  weather  bauds,  it'll  be  a 
blessing  for  us  poor  farming  bodies." 

Tam  was  a  wealthy  old  hunks,  but  it  suited  his  hu- 

[34] 


CHAPTER   FIVE 

inoiir  to  refer  to  himself  constantly  as  "  a  poor  farming 
bodie."  And  he  dressed  in  accordance  with  his  humour. 
His  clean  old  crab-apple  face  was  always  grinning  at 
you  from  over  a  white-sleeved  moleskin  waistcoat,  as 
if  he  had  been  no  better  than  a  breaker  of  road-mettle. 

"Faith  aye!  "  said  the  Provost,  cunning  and  quick — 
"  fodder  should  be  cheap  " — and  he  shot  the  covetous 
glimmer  of  a  bargain-making  eye  at  Mr.  Wylie. 

Tam  drew  himself  up.    He  saw  what  was  coming. 

"  We're  needing  some  hay  for  the  burgh  horse,"  said 
the  Provost.  "  Ye'll  be  willing  to  sell  at  fifty  shillings 
the  ton,  since  it's  like  to  be  so  plentiful." 

"  Oh,"  said  Tam  solemnly,  "  that's  on-possible! 
Gourlay's  seeking  the  three  pound!  And  where  he 
leads  we  maun,  a'  gang.  Gourlay  sets  the  tune  and 
Barbie  dances  till't." 

That  was  quite  untrue  so  far  as  the  speaker  was  con- 
cerned. It  took  a  clever  man  to  make  Tam  Wylie  dance 
to  his  piping.  But  Thomas,  the  knave,  knew  that  he 
could  always  take  a  rise  out  the  Provost  by  cracking  up 
the  Gourlays,  and  that  to  do  it  now  was  the  best  way 
of  fobbing  him  off  about  the  hay. 

"Gourlay!"  muttered  the  Provost  in  disgust.  And 
Tam  winked  at  the  baker. 

"Losh!"  said  Sandy  Toddle,  "yonder's  the  Free 
Kirk  Minister  going  past  the  Cross!  Where'll  lie  be  off 
till,  at  this  hour  of  the  day?  He's  not  often  up  so 
soon." 

"  They  say  he  sits  late  studying,"  said  Johnny  Coe. 

"  H'mph,  studying! "  grunted  Tam  Brodie,  a  big 
heavy  wall-cheeked  man,  whose  little  side-glancing  eyes 
seemed  always  alert  for  scandal  amid  the  massive  inso- 

[35] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GREEN  SHUTTERS 

lence  of  his  smooth  face.  "  I  see  few  signs  of  studying 
in  him.    He's  noathing  but  a  stink  wi'  a  skin  on't." 

T.  Brodie  was  a  very  important  man,  look  you,  and 
wrote  "  Leather  Mercht."  above  his  door,  though  he 
cobbled  with  his  own  hands.  He  was  a  staunch  Con- 
servative, and  down  on  the  Dissenters. 

"  What  road'th  he  taking?  "  lisped  Deacon  Allardyce, 
craning  past  Brodie's  big  shoulder  to  get  a  look. 

"  He's  stoppit  to  speak  to  Widow  Wallace.  What  will 
he  be  saying  to  her?  " 

"  She's  a  greedy  bodie  that  Mrs.  Wallace;  I  wouldna 
wonder  but  she's  spiering  him  for  bawbees." 

"  Will  he  take  the  Skeighan  Koad,  I  wonder  ?  " 

"  Or  the  Fechars?  " 

"  He's  a  great  man  for  gathering  gowans  and  other 
sic  trash.  He's  maybe  for  a  dander  up  the  burn  juist. 
They  say  he's  a  great  botanical  man." 

"  Aye,"  said  Brodie,  "  paidling  in  a  burn's  the  ploy 
for  him.     He's  a  weanly  gowk." 

"A-a-ah!"  protested  the  baker,  who  was  a  Burnso- 
maniac,  "  there's  waur  than  a  Avalk  by  the  bank  o'  a 
bonny  burn.    Ye  ken  what  Mossgiel  said: 

"  '  The  Muse  nae  poet  ever  fand  her, 
Till  by  himsel  he  learned  to  wauder, 
Adown  some  trottin  burn's  meander, 

And  no  thick  lang; 
Oh  sweet,  to  muse  and  pensive  ponder 

A  heartfelt  sang.' " 

Poetical  quotations  however  made  the  Provost 
uncomfortable.  "Aye,"  he  said  drily  in  his  throat; 
"verra    good,    baker,    verra    good!  —  Whose    yellow 

[36] 


CHAPTEE  FIVE 

doag's  that?     I  never  saw  the  beast  about  the  town 
before!  " 

"  Nor  me  either.    It's  a  perfect  stranger!  " 

"  Ifs  like  a  herd's  doag!  " 

"Man,  you're  right!  That's  Just  what  it  will  be. 
The  morn's  Fleckie  lamb  fair,  and  some  herd  or  other'U 
be  in  about  the  town." 

"  He'll  be  drinking  in  some  public  house,  I'se  war- 
rant, and  the  doag  will  have  lost  him." 

"  Imph,  that'll  be  the  way  o't." 

"  I'm  demned  if  he  hasn't  taken  the  Skeighan  Road!  " 
said  Sandy  Toddle,  who  had  kept  his  eye  on  the  min- 
ister.— Toddle's  accent  was  a  varying  quality.  When 
he  remembered  he  had  been  a  packman  in  England  it 
was  exceedingly  fine.    But  he  often  forgot. 

"The  Skeighan  Eoad!  The  Skeighan  Road!  Who'll 
he  be  going  to  see  in  that  airt?  Will  it  be  Templand- 
muir?  " 

"  Gosh,  it  canna  be  Tomplandmuir.  He  was  there 
no  later  than  yestreen!" 

"Here's  a  man  coming  down  the  brae!"  announced 
Johnny  Coe  in  a  solemn  voice,  as  if  a  man  "  coming 
down  the  brae  "  was  something  unusual.  In  a  moment 
every  head  was  turned  to  the  hill. 

"What's  yon  he's  carrying  on  his  shouther?"  pon- 
dered Brodie. 

"  It  looks  like  a  boax,"  said  the  Provost,  slowly,  bend- 
ing every  effort  of  eye  and  mind  to  discover  what  it 
really  was.  He  was  giving  his  profoundest  cogitations 
to  the  "  boax." 

"It  -is  a  boax!  But  who  is  it  though?  I  canna 
make  him  out." 

[37] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GKEEN  SHUTTEKS 

"  Dod,  I  canna  tell  either;  his  head's  so  bent  with 
his  burdenl  " 

At  last  the  man,  laying  his  "  boax  "  on  the  ground, 
stood  up  to  ease  his  spine,  so  that  his  face  was  visible. 

"  Losh,  it's  Jock  Gilmour,  the  orra  man  at  Gour- 
lay's!  What'll  he  be  doing  out  on  the  street  at  this 
hour  of  the  day?  I  thocht  he  was  always  busy  on  the 
2-)remises!  Will  Gourlay  be  sending  him  off  with  some- 
thing to  somebody?  But  no;  that  canna  be.  He  would 
have  sent  it  with  the  carts." 

"  I'll  wager  ye,"  cried  Johnny  Coe  quickly,  speaking 
more  loudly  than  usual  in  the  animation  of  discovery, 
"  I'll  wager  ye  Gourlay  has  quarrelled  him  and  put  him 
to  the  door!  " 

"  Man,  you're  right!  That'll  just  be  it,  that'll  just 
be  it!  Aye;  aye;  faith  aye;  and  yon'll  be  his  kist  he's 
carrying!  Man,  you're  right,  Mr.  Coe;  you  have  just 
put  your  finger  on't.    We'll  hear  news  tliis  morning." 

They  edged  forward  to  the  middle  of  the  road,  the 
Provost  in  front,  to  meet  Gilmour  coming  down. 

"  Ye've  a  heavy  burden  this  morning,  John,"  said  the 
Provost  graciously. 

"  jSTo  wonder,  sir,"  said  Gilmour  with  big-eyed  so- 
lemnity, and  set  down  the  chest ;  "  it's  no  wonder,  see- 
ing that  I'm  carrying  my  a-all." 

"  Aye,  man,  John.    How's  that  na?  " 

To  be  the  centre  of  interest  and  the  object  6f  gra- 
cious condescension  was  balm  to  the  wounded  feelings 
of  Gilmour.  Gourlay  had  lowered  him,  but  this  recep- 
tion restored  him  to  liis  own  good  opinion.  He  was 
usually  called  "  Jock  ''  (except  l)y  his  mother,  to  whom, 
of  course,  he  was  "  oor  Johnny  ")  but  tlie  best  mer- 

[38] 


CHAPTER  FIVE 

cliants  in  the  town  were  addressing  him  as  "  John." 
It  was  a  great  occasion.  Gilmour  expanded  in  gossip 
beneath  its  influence  benign. 

He  welcomed,  too,  this  first  and  fine  opportunity  of 
venting  his  wrath  on  the  Gourlays. 

"  Oh,  I  just  telled  Gourlay  what  I  thocht  of  him,  and 
took  the  door  ahint  me.  I  let  him  have  it  hot  and 
hardy,  I  can  tell  ye.  He'll  no'  forget  me  in  a  hurry  " — 
Gilmour  bawled  angrily,  and  nodded  his  head  signifi- 
cantly, and  glared  fiercely,  to  sliow  what  good  cause 
he  had  given  Gourlay  to  remember  him — "  he'll  no  for- 
get me  for  a  mouth  of  Sundays." 

"Aye,  man,  John,  what  did  ye  say  till  him?" 

"  Na,  man,  what  did  he  say  to  you?  " 

"  Wath  he  angry,  Dyohn  ?  " 

"  How  did  the  thing  begin?  " 

"  Tell  us,  man,  John." 

"  What  was  it  a-all  about,  John?  " 

"Was  Mrs.  Gourlay  there?" 

Bewildered  by  this  pelt  of  questions  Gilmour  an- 
swered the  last  that  hit  his  ear.  "  There,  aye;  faith, 
she  was  there.    It  was  her  was  the  cause  o't." 

"  D'ye  tell  me  that,  John?  Man,  you  surprise  me.  I 
would  have  thocht  the  thowless  trauchle  *  hadna  the 
smeddum  left  to  interfere." 

"  Oh,  it  was  yon  boy  of  hers.  He's  aye  swaggerin' 
aboot,  interferin'  wi'  folk  at  their  wark — he  follows  his 
faither's  example  in  that,  for  as  the  auld  cock  craws  the 
young  ane  learns — and  his  mither's  that  daft  aboot  him 
that  ye  daurna  give  a  look!  He  came  in  my  road  when 
I  was  sweeping  out  the  close,  and  some  o'  the  dirty 

*  Trauchle,  a  poor  trollop  who  trails  about ;  smeddum,  grit, 

[39] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GREEN  SHUTTERS 

jaups  splashed  about  his  shins;  but  was  I  to  blame  for 
that? — ye  maun  walk  wide  o'  a  whalebone  besom  if  ye 
dinna  want  to  be  splashed.  Afore  I  kenned  where  1 
was,  he  up  wi'  a  dirty  was«hing-clout  and  slashed  me 
in  the  face  wi't!  I  hit  him  a  thud  in  the  ear — as  wha 
wadna  ?  Out  come  his  mither  like  a  fury,  skirling  about 
her  hoose,  and  her  servants,  and  her  weans.  '  Your  serv- 
ant ! '  says  I,  '  your  servant !  You're  a  nice-looking 
trollop  to  talk  aboot  servants,'  says  I.'' 

"Did  ye  really,  John?" 

"  Man,  that  wath  bauld  o'  ye." 

"  And  what  did  she  say?  " 

"  Oh,  she  just  kept  skirling!  And  then,  to  be  sure, 
Gourlay  must  come  out  and  interfere !  But  I  tailed 
him  to  his  face  what  I  thocht  of  him\  '  The  best  Gour- 
lay that  ever  dirtied  leather,'  says  I,  '  's  no  gaun  to 
make  dirt  of  me,'  says  I." 

"Aye  man,  Dyohn!"  lisped  Deacon  Allardyce,  with 
bright  and  eagerly  enquiring  eyes.  "  And  what  did  he 
thay  to  that,  na?  Tliat  wath  a  dig  for  him!  I'the  war- 
rant he  wath  angry." 

"  Angry  ?  He  foamed  at  the  mouth !  But  I  up  and 
says  to  him,  '  I  have  had  enough  o'  you,'  says  I,  '  you 
and  your  Hoose  wi'  the  Green  Shutters,'  says  I,  '  you're 
no  fit  to  have  a  decent  servant,'  says  I.  '  Pay  me  ni!/ 
wages  and  I'll  be  redd  o'  ye,'  says  I.  And  wi'  that  I 
flang  my  kist  on  my  shouther  and  slapped  the  gate 
ahint  me." 

"  And  did  he  pay  ye  your  wages?  "  Tam  Wylie  probed 
him  slily,  with  a  sideward  glimmer  in  his  eye. 

"  Ah,  Avell,  no;  not  exactly,"  said  Gilmour  drawing 
in.    "  But  I'll  get  them  right  enough  for  a'  that.    He'll 

[40] 


CHAPTER  FIVE 

no  get  the  better  o'  me"  Having  grounded  unpleas- 
antly on  the  question  of  the  wages  he  thought  it  best  to 
be  off  ere  the  bloom  was  dashed  from  his  importance, 
so  he  shouldered  his  chest  and  went.  The  bodies 
watched  him  down  the  street. 

"  He's  a  lying  brose,  that,"  said  the  baker.  "  We  a' 
ken  what  Gourlay  is.  He  would  have  flung  Gilmour  out 
by  the  scruff  o'  the  neck,  if  he  had  daured  to  set  his 
tongue  against  him!  " 

"  Faith,  that's  so,"  said  Tam  Wylie  and  Johnny  Coe 
together. 

But  the  others  were  divided  between  their  perception 
of  the  fact  and  their  wish  to  believe  that  Gourlay  had 
received  a  thrust  or  two.  At  other  times  they  would 
have  been  the  first  to  scoff  at  Gilmour's  swagger.  Now 
their  animus  against  Gourlay  prompted  them  to  back 
it  up. 

"  Oh,  I'm  not  so  sure  of  tha-at,  baker,"  cried  the 
Provost,  in  the  false  loud  voice  of  a  man  defending  a 
position  which  he  knows  to  be  unsound.  "  I'm  no  so 
sure  of  that,  at  a-all.  A-a-ah,  mind  ye,"  he  drawled  per- 
suasively, "  he's  a  hardy  fallow,  that  Gilmour.  I've  no 
doubt  he  gied  Gourlay  a  good  dig  or  two.  Let  us  howp 
they  will  do  him  good." 

For  many  reasons  intimate  to  the  Scot's  character, 
envious  scandal  is  rampant  in  petty  towns  such  as  Bar- 
bie. To  go  back  to  the  beginning,  the  Scot,  as  pundits 
will  tell  you,  is  an  individualist.  His  religion  alone  is 
enough  to  make  him  so.  For  it  is  a  scheme  of  personal 
salvation  significantly  described  once  by  the  Reverend 
Mr.  Struthers  of  Barbie.  "  At  the  Pay  of  Judgment, 
my  frehnds,"  said  Mr.  Slrulliers;  "  at  tlie  Pay  of  Judg- 

[41] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GEEEN  SHUTTERS 

ment  every  herring  must  hang  by  his  own  tail!  "  Self- 
dependence  was  never  more  luridly  expressed.  His- 
tory, climate,  social  conditions,  and  the  national  bever- 
age have  all  combined  (the  pundits  go  on)  to  make  the 
Scot  an  individualist,  fighting  for  his  own  hand.  The 
better  for  him  if  it  be  so;  from  that  he  gets  the  grit 
that  tells. 

From  their  individualism,  however,  comes  inevitably 
a  keen  spirit  of  competition  (the  more  so  because  Scotch 
democracy  gives  fine  chances  to  compete),  and  from 
their  keen  spirit  of  competition  comes,  inevitably  again, 
an  envious  belittlement  of  rivals.  If  a  man's  success 
offends  your  individuality,  to  say  everything  you  can 
against  him  is  a  recognised  weapon  of  the  fight.  It 
takes  him  down  a  bit.    And  (inversely)  elevates  his  rival. 

It  is  in  a  small  place  like  Barbie  that  such  malignity 
is  most  virulent,  because  in  a  small  place  like  Barbie 
every  man  knows  everything  to  his  neighbour's  detri- 
ment. He  can  redd  up  his  rival's  pedigree,  for  example, 
and  lower  his  pride  (if  need  be)  by  detailing  the  dis- 
graces of  his  kin.  "  I  have  grand  news  the  day!  "  a  big- 
hearted  Scot  will  exclaim  (and  when  their  hearts  are 
big  they  are  big  to  hypertrophy) — "  I  have  grand  news 
the  day!  Man,  Jock  Goudie  has  won  the  C.  B." — "  Jock 
Goudie,"  an  envious  bodie  will  pucker  as  if  he  had  never 
heard  the  name;  "Jock  Goudie?  Wha's  he  for  a  Gou- 
die? Oh  aye,  let  me  see  now.  He's  a  brother  o' — eh,  a 
brother  o' — eh  (tit-tit-titting  on  his  brow) — oh,  just  a 
brother  o'  Dru'cken  Will  Goudie  o'  Auchterwheeze! 
Oo-ooh  I  ken  him  fine.  His  grannie  keepit  a  sweetie- 
shop  in  Strathbungo." — There  you  have  the  "  nesty  " 
Scotsman. 

[42] 


CHAPTER  FIYE 

Even  if  Gourlay  had  been  a  placable  and  inoffensive 
man,  then,  the  malignants  of  the  petty  burgh  (it  was 
scarce  bigger  than  a  village)  would  have  fastened  on 
his  character,  simply  because  he  was  above  them.  No 
man  has  a  keener  eye  for  behaviour  than  the  Scot  (espe- 
cially when  spite  wings  his  intuition),  and  Gourlay's 
thickness  of  wit,  and  pride  of  place,  would  in  any  case 
have  drawn  their  sneers.  So,  too,  on  lower  grounds, 
would  liis  wife's  sluttishness.  But  his  repressiveness 
added  a  hundred-fold  to  their  hate  of  him.  That 
was  the  particular  cause,  which  acting  on  their 
general  tendency  to  belittle  a  too-successful  rival, 
made  their  spite  almost  monstrous  against  him.  Not 
a  man  among  them  but  had  felt  the  weight  of  his  tongue 
— for  edge  it  had  none.  He  walked  among  them  like 
the  dirt  below  his  feet.  There  was  no  give  and  take  in 
the  man;  he  could  be  verra  jocose  with  the  lairds,  to  be 
sure,  but  he  never  dropped  in  to  tlie  Eed  Lion  for  a 
crack  and  a  dram  with  the  town-folk;  he  just  glowered 
as  if  he  could  devour  them!  And  who  was  he,  I  should 
like  to  know?  His  grandfather  had  been  noathing  but 
a  common  carrier! 

Hate  was  the  greater  on  both  sides  because  it  was 
often  impotent.  Gourlay  frequently  suspected  offence, 
and  seethed  because  he  had  no  idea  how  to  meet  it 
— except  by  driving  slowly  down  the  brae  in  his  new 
gig  and  never  letting  on  when  the  Provost  called  to  him. 
That  was  a  wipe  in  the  eye  for  the  Provost!  The  "  bod- 
ies," on  their  part,  could  rarely  get  near  enough  Gourlay 
to  pierce  his  armour;  he  kept  them  off  him  by  his  brutal 
doumess.  For  it  was  not  only  pride  and  arrogance, 
but  a  consciousness,  also,  that  he  was  no  match  for 

[43] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GEEEN  SHUTTEKS 

them  at  their  own  game,  that  kept  Gourlay  away  from 
their  society.  They  were  adepts  at  the  under  stroke 
and  tliey  would  have  given  him  many  a  dig  if  he  had 
only  come  amongst  them.  But,  oh,  no;  not  he;  he  was 
the  big  man;  he  never  gave  a  body  a  chance!  Or  if  you 
did  venture  a  bit  jibe  when  you  met  him,  he  glowered 
you  off  the  face  of  the  earth  with  thae  black  e'en  of  his. 
Oh,  how  they  longed  to  get  at  him!  It  was  not  the  least 
of  the  evils  caused  by  Gourlay's  black  pride  that  it  per- 
verted a  dozen  characters.  The  "  bodies  "  of  Barbie 
may  have  been  decent  enough  men  in  their  own  way, 
but  against  him  their  malevolence  was  monstrous.  It 
shewed  itself  in  an  insane  desire  to  seize  on  every  scrap 
of  gossip  they  might  twist  against  him.  That  was  why 
tlie  Provost  lowered  municipal  dignity  to  gossip  in  the 
street  with  a  discharged  servant.  As  the  baker  said 
afterwards,  it  was  absurd  for  a  man  in  his  "  poseetion." 
But  it  was  done  with  the  sole  desire  of  hearing  some- 
thing that  might  tell  against  Gourlay.  Even  Count- 
esses, we  are  told,  gossip  with  malicious  maids,  about 
other  Countesses.     Spite  is  a  great  leveller. 

"Shall  we  adjourn?"  said  Brodie,  when  they  had 
watched  Jock  Gilmour  out  of  sight.  He  pointed  across 
his  shoulder  to  the  Red  Lion. 

"  Better  noat  just  now,"  said  the  Provost,  nodding  in 
slow  authority;  "  better  noat  just  now!  I'm  very  anx- 
ious to  see  Gourlay  about  yon  matter  we  were  speaking 
of,  doan't  ye  undersfa-and?  But  I'm  determined  not  to 
go  to  his  house!  On  the  other  hand  if  we  go  into  the 
Red  Lion  the  now,  we  may  miss  him  on  the  street. 
We'll  noat  have  loang  to  wait,  though;  he'll  be  down 
the  town  directly,  to  look  at  the  horses  he  has  at  the 

[44] 


CHAPTER  FIVE 

gerse  out  the  Fechars  Eoad.  But  Fni  tailing  ye,  I  sim- 
ply will  noat  go  to  his  house — to  put  up  with  a  wheen 
damned  insults!  "  he  puffed  in  angry  recollection. 

"  To  tell  the  truth/'  said  Wylie,  "  I  don't  like  to  call 
upon  Gourlay,  either.  I'm  aware  of  his  eyes  on  my 
back  when  I  slink  beaten  through  his  gate — and  I  feel 
that  my  hurdles  are  wanting  in  dignity!  " 

"Huh!"  spluttered  Brodie,  "that  never  affects  me. 
I  come  stunting  out  in  a  bleeze  of  wrath  and  slam  the 
yett  ahint  me! " 

"  Oh,  well,"  said  the  Deacon,  "  that'th  one  way  of 
being  dignified." 

"  I'm  afraid,"  said  Sandy  Toddle,  "  that  he  won't  be 
in  a  very  good  key  to  consider  our  request  this  morning, 
after  his  quarrel  with  Gilmour." 

"No,"  said  the  Provost,  "he'll  be  blazing  angry! 
It's  most  unfoartunate.  But  we  maun  try  to  get  his 
consent  be  his  temper  what  it  will.  It's  a  matter  of 
importance  to  the  town,  doan't  ye  see,  and  if  he  refuses, 
we  simply  can-noat  proceed  wi'  the  improvement." 

"  It  was  Gilmour's  jibe  at  the  House  wi'  the  Green 
Shutters  that  would  anger  him  the  most — for  it's  the 
perfect  god  of  his  idolatry.  Eh,  sirs,  he  has  wasted 
an  awful  money  upon  yon  house!  " 

"Wasted's  the  word!"  said  Brodie  with  a  blatant 
laugh.  "Wasted's  the  word!  They  say  he  has  verra 
little  lying  cash!  And  I  shouldna  be  surprised  at  all. 
For,  ye  see,  Gibson  the  builder  diddled  him  owre  the 
building  o't." 

"  Oh,  I'se  warrant  Cunning  Johnny  would  get  the 
better  of  an  ass  like  Gourlay.  But  how  in  par- 
ticular, Mr.  Brodie?     ITare  v"  heard  ainy  details?  " 

[45] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GREEN  SHUTTERS 

"  I've  been  on  the  track  o'  the  thing  for  a  while  back, 
but  it  was  only  yestreen  I  had  the  proofs  o't,  Itwas  Robin 
Wabster  that  telled  me.  He's  a  jouking  bodie,  Robin, 
and  he  was  ahint  a  dyke  up  the  Skeighan  Road  when 
Gibson  and  Gourlay  foregathered — the}'^  stoppit  just 
forenenst  him!  Gourlay  began  to  curse  at  the  size  of 
Gibson's  bill,  but  Cunning  Johnny  kenned  the  way  to 
get  round  him  brawly.  '  Mr.  Gourlay/  says  he,  '  there's 
not  a  thing  in  your  house  that  a  man  in  your  poseetion 
can  afford  to  be  without — and  ye  needn't  expect  the  best 
house  in  Barbie  for  an  oald  song! '  And  Gourlay  was 
pacified  at  once!  It  appeared  frae  their  crack,  how- 
ever, that  Gibson  has  diddled  him  tremendous.  '  Verra 
well  then/  Robin  heard  Gourlay  cry,  '  you  must  allow 
me  a  while  ere  I  pay  that! '  I  wager,  for  a'  sae  muckle 
as  he's  made  of  late,  that  his  balance  at  the  bank's  a  sma' 
yin." 

"  More  thyow  than  thubstanth,"  said  the  Deacon. 

"  Well,  I'm  sure!  "  said  the  Provost,  "  he  needn't  have 
built  such  a  gra-and  house  to  put  a  slut  of  a  wife  like 
yon  in! " 

"  I  was  surprised,"  said  Sandy  Toddle,  "  to  hear  about 
her  firing  up.  I  wouldn't  have  thought  she  had  the 
spirit,  or  that  Gourlay  would  have  come  to  her  sup- 
port! " 

"  Oh,"  said  the  Provost,  "  it  wasn't  her  he  was  think- 
ing of!  It  was  his  own  pride,  the  brute.  He  leads  the 
woman  the  life  of  a  doag.  I'm  surprised  that  he  ever 
married  her!  " 

"  I  ken  fine  how  he  married  her,"  said  Johnny  Coe. 
•'*  I  was  acquaint  wi'  her  faither,  auld  Tenshillingland 
owre  at  Fechars — a  grand  farmer  he  was,  wi'  land  o'  his 

[46] 


CHAPTER  FIYE 

nain,  and  a  gey  pickle  bawbees.  It  was  the  bawbees, 
and  not  the  woman,  that  Gouiiay  went  after!  It  was  her 
money,  as  ye  ken,  that  set  him  on  his  feet,  and  made  him 
such  a  big  man.  He  never  cared  a  preen  for  her,  and 
then  when  she  proved  a  dirty  trollop,  he  couldna  endure 
her  look!  That's  what  makes  him  so  sore  upon  her  now. 
And  yet  I  mind  her  a  braw  lass,  too,"  said  Johnny  the 
sentimentalist,  "  a  braw  lass  she  was,"  he  mused,  "  wi' 
fine,  brown  glossy  hair,  I  mind,  and, — ochonee!  ochonee! 
— as  daft  as  a  yett  in  a  windy  day.  She  had  a  cousin, 
Jenny  Wabster,  that  dwelt  in  Tenshillingland  than,  and 
mony  a  summer  nicht  up  the  Fechars  Road,  when  ye 
smelled  the  honey-suckle  in  the  gloaming,  I  have  heard 
the  two  o'  them  tee-heeing  owre  the  lads  thegither,  skirl- 
ing in  the  dark  and  lauching  to  themselves.  They 
were  of  the  glaikit  kind  ye  can  always  hear  loang 
before  ye  see.  Jock  Allan  (that  has  done  so  well  in 
Embro)  was  a  herd  at  Tenshillingland  than,  and  he 
likit  her,  and  I  think  she  likit  him,  but  Gourlay 
came  wi'  his  gig  and  whisked  her  away.  She  doesna 
lauch  sae  muckle  now,  puir  bodie!  But  a  braw  lass 
she " 

"  It's  you  maun  speak  to  Gourlay,  Deacon,"  said  the 
Provost,  brushing  aside  the  reminiscent  Coe. 

"  How  can  it  be  that.  Provost?  It'th  your  place, 
surely.     You're  the  head  of  the  town!  " 

When  Gourlay  was  to  be  approached  there  was  always 
a  competition  for  who  should  be  hindmost. 

"  Yass,  but  you  know  perfectly  well,  Deacon,  that  I 
cannot  thole  the  look  of  him.  I  simply  cannot  thole 
the  look!  And  he  knows  it  too.  The  thing'll  gang 
smash  at  the  outset — Pm  tailing  ye,  now — it'll  go  smash 

[47] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GKEEN  SHUTTERS 

at  the  outset  if  it's  left  to  me, — And  than,  ye  see,  you 
have  a  better  way  of  approaching  folk!  " 

"Ith  that  tho?"  said  the  Deacon  drily.  He  shot 
a  suspicious  glance  to  see  if  the  Provost  was  guy- 
ing him. 

"  Oh,  it  must  be  left  to  you.  Deacon,"  said  the  baker 
and  Tarn  Wylie  in  a  breath. 

"  Certainly,  it  maun  be  left  to  the  Deacon,"  assented 
Johnny  Coe,  when  he  saw  how  the  others  were  giving 
their  opinion. 

"  Tho  be  it,  then,"  snapped  the  Deacon. 

"  Here  he  comes,"  said  Sandy  Toddle. 

Gourlay  came  down  the  street  towards  them,  his  chest 
big,  his  thumbs  in  the  armholes  of  his  waistcoat.  He 
had  the  power  of  staring  steadily  at  those  whom  he  ap- 
proached without  the  slightest  sign  of  recognition  oi 
intelligence  appearing  in  his  eyes.  As  he  marched 
down  upon  the  bodies  he  fixed  them  with  a  wide-open 
glower  that  was  devoid  of  every  expression  but  cour- 
ageous steadiness.  It  gave  a  kind  of  fierce  vacancy  to 
his  look. 

The  Deacon  limped  forward  on  his  thin  shanks  to  the 
middle  of  the  road. 

"  It'th  a  fine  morning,  Mr.  Gourlay,"  he  simpered. 

*'  There's  noathing  wrong  with  the  morning,"  grunted 
Gourlay,  as  if  there  was  something  wrong  with  the 
Deacon. 

"  We  wath  wanting  to  thee  ye  on  a  very  important 
matter,  ]\Iithter  Gourlay,"  lisped  the  Deacon,  smiling  up 
at  the  big  man's  face,  with  his  head  on  one  side, 
and  rubbing  his  fingers  in  front  of  him.  "  It'th  a  mat- 
ter of  the  common  good,  you  thee;  and  Ave  all  agreed 

[48] 


CHAPTER  FIVE 

that  we  should  speak  to  you,  ath  the  foremost  merchant 
of  the  town!  " 

AUardyce  meant  his  compliment  to  fetch  Gourlay. 
But  Gourlay  knew  his  AUardyce  and  was  cautious.  It 
was  well  to  be  on  your  guard  when  the  Deacon  was  com- 
plimentary. When  his  language  was  most  flowery  there 
was  sure  to  be  a  serpent  hidden  in  it  somewhere.  He 
would  lisp  out  an  innocent  remark  and  toddle  away,  and 
Gourlay  would  think  nothing  of  the  matter  till  a  week 
afterwards,  perhaps,  when  something  would  flash  a  light 
— then  "Damn  him,  did  he  mean  ''that'?"  he  would 
seethe,  starting  back  and  staring  at  the  "  that "  while  his 
fingers  strangled  the  air  in  place  of  the  Deacon. 

He  glowered  at  the  Deacon  now  till  the  Deacon 
blinked. 

"  You  thee,  Mr.  Gourlay,"  AUardyce  shuffled  uneas- 
ily, "  it's  for  your  own  benefit  just  ath  much  ath  ourth. 
We  were  thinking  of  you  ath  well  ath  of  ourthelves! 
Oh,  yeth,  oh,  yeth!  " 

"Aye,  man!"  said  Gourlay,  "that  was  kind  of  ye! 
I'll  be  the  first  man  in  Barbie  to  get  ainy  benefit  from 
the  fools  that  mismanage  our  affairs." 

The  gravel  grated  beneath  the  Provost's  foot.  The 
atmosphere  was  becoming  electric,  and  the  Deacon  has- 
tened to  the  point. 

"  You  thee,  there'th  a  fine  natural  supply  of  water — 
a  perfect  reservore  the  Provost  sayth — on  the  brae-face 
just  above  yoitr  garden,  Mr.  Gourlay.  Now,  it  would 
be  easy  to  lead  that  water  down  and  alang  through  all 
the  gardenth  on  the  high  side  of  Main  Street — and, 
'deed,  it  might  feed  a  pump  at  the  Cross,  too,  to  supply 
the  lower  portionth  o'  the  town.     It  would  really  be  a 

[49] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GREEN  SHUTTERS 

grai-ait  convenience. — Every  man  on  the  high  side  o' 
]\Iain  Street  would  have  a  running  spout  at  his  own  back 
door!  If  your  garden  didna  run  tho  far  back,  Mr.  Gour- 
lay,  and  ye  hadna  tho  muckle  land  about  your  place  " — 
that  should  fetch  him,  thought  the  Deacon! — "if  it 
werena  for  that,  Mr.  Gourlay,  we  could  easily  lead  the 
water  round  to  the  other  gardenth  without  interfering 
with  your  property.  But,  ath  it  ith,  we  simply  can- 
noat  move  without  ye.  The  water  must  come  through 
your  garden,  if  it  comes  at  a-all." 

"  The  most  o'  you  important  men  live  on  the  high 
side  o'  Main  Street,"  birred  Gourlay.  "  Is  it  the  poor 
folk  at  the  Cross,  or  your  ain  bits  o'  back  doors  that 
you're  thinking  o'  ?  " 

"  Oh — oh,  Mr.  Gourlay!  "  protested  Allardyce,  head 
flung  back,  and  palms  in  air,  to  keep  the  thought  of  self- 
interest  away,  "  oh— oh,  Mr.  Gourlay!  We're  thinking 
of  noathing  but  the  common  good,  I  do  assure  ye." 

"Aye,  man!  You're  dis-in-ter-ested! "  said  Gour- 
lay, but  he  stumbled  on  the  big  word  and  spoiled  the 
sneer.  That  angered  him,  and,  "  it's  likely,"  he  rapped 
out,  "that  I'll  allow  the  land  round  my  house  to  be 
howked  and  trenched  and  made  a  mudhole  of,  to  oblige 
a  Avheen  things  like  you!  " 

"  Oh— oh,  but  think  of  the  convenience  to  nth— eh— 
eh — I  mean  to  the  common  good,"  said  Allardyce. 

"I  howked  wells  for  myself,"  snapped  Gourlay. 
"  Let  others  do  the  like." 

"  Oh,  but  we  haven't  all  the  enterprithe  of  you,  Mr. 
Gourlay.     You'll  surely  accommodate  the  town! " 

"  I'll  see  the  town  damned  first,"  said  Gourlay,  and 
passed  on  his  steady  way. 

[50] 


VI 

The  bodies  watched  Gourlay  in  silence  until  he  was 
cut  of  ear-shot.  Then,  "  It's  monstrous!  "  the  Provost 
broke  out  in  solemn  anger;  "  I  declare  it's  perfectly 
monstrous!  But  I  believe  we  could  get  Pow-ers  to  com- 
pel him.  Yass;  I  believe  we  could  get  Pow-ers.  I  do 
believe  we  could  get  Pow-ers." 

The  Provost  was  fond  of  talking  about  "  Pow-ers  " 
because  it  implied  that  he  was  intimate  with  the  great 
authorities  who  might  delegate  such  "  Pow-ers "  to 
him.  To  talk  of  "  Pow-ers,"  mysteriously,  was  a  trib- 
ute to  his  own  importance.  He  rolled  the  word  on  his 
tongue  as  if  he  enjoyed  the  sound  of  it. 

On  the  Deacon's  cheek  bones  two  red  spots  flamed, 
round  and  big  as  a  Scotch  penny.  His  was  the  hurt 
silence  of  the  baffled  diplomatist,  to  whom  a  defeat 
means  reflections  on  his  own  ability. 

"  Demn  him!  "  he  skirled,  following  the  solid  march 
of  his  enemy  with  fiery  eyes. 

Never  before  had  his  Deaconship  been  heard  to  swear. 
Tam  Wylie  laughed  at  the  shrill  oath  till  his  eyes  were 
buried  in  his  merry  wrinkles,  a  suppressed  snirt,  a  con- 
tinuous gurgle  in  the  throat  and  nose,  in  beaming  sur- 
vey the  while  of  the  withered  old  creature  dancing  in  his 
rage.  (It  was  all  a  good  joke  to  Tam,  because,  living 
on  the  outskirts  of  the  town,  he  had  no  spigot  of  his 

[51] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GEEEN  SHUTTERS 

own  to  feed.)  The  Deacon  turned  the  eyes  of  hate  on 
him.     Demn  Wylie  too, — what  was  he  laughing  at! 

"  Oh,  I  darethay  you  could  have  got  round  him!  "  he 
snapped. 

"  In  my  opinion,  Allardyce,"  said  the  baker,  "  you 
mismanaged  the  whole  affair.  Yon  wasna  the  way  to 
approach  him!  " 

"  It'th  a  pity  you  didna  try  your  hand,  then,  I'm  sure! 
No  doubt  a  clever  man  like  you  would  have  worked 
wonderth! " 

So  the  bodies  wrangled  among  themselves.  Some- 
how or  other  Gourlay  had  the  knack  of  setting  them  by 
the  ears.  It  was  not  till  they  hit  on  a  common  topic 
of  their  spite  in  railing  at  him,  that  they  became  a  band 
of  brothers  and  a  happy  few. 

"  Whisht!  "  said  Sandy  Toddle,  suddenly,  "  here's  his 
boy!  " 

John  was  coming  towards  them  on  his  way  to  school. 
The  bodies  watched  him  as  he  passed,  with  the  fixed 
look  men  turn  on  a  boy  of  whose  kinsmen  they  were 
talking  even  now.  They  affect  a  stony  and  deliberate 
regard,  partly  to  include  the  new-comer  in  their  critical 
survey  of  his  family,  and  partly  to  banish  from  their 
own  eyes  any  sign  that  they  have  just  been  running  down 
his  people.  John,  as  quick  as  his  mother  to  feel,  knew 
in  a  moment  they  were  watching  Mm.  He  hung  his 
head  sheepishly  and  blushed,  and  the  moment  he  was 
past  he  broke  into  a  nervous  trot,  the  bag  of  books 
bumping  on  his  back  as  he  ran. 

"  He's  getting  a  big  boy,  that  son  of  Gourlay's,"  said 
the  Provost,  "  how  oald  will  he  be?  " 

"He's  approaching  twelve,"  said  Johnny  Coe,  who 

[52] 


CHAPTEK   SIX 

made  a  point  of  being  able  to  supply  such  news 
because  it  gained  him  consideration  where  he  was 
otherwise  unheeded.  "  He  was  born  the  day  the  brig 
on  the  Fleckie  Eoad  gaed  down,  in  the  year  o'  the  great 
flood;  and  since  the  great  flood  it's  twelve  year  come 
Lammas.  Eab  Tosh  o'  Fleckie's  wife  was  heavy-footed 
at  the  time,  and  Doctor  Munn  had  been  a'  niclit  wi'  her, 
and  when  he  cam  to  Barbie  Water  in  the  morning  it 
was  roaring  wide  frae  bank  to  brae;  where  the  brig 
should  have  been  there  was  naething  but  the  swashing 
of  the  yellow  waves.  Munn  had  to  drive  a'  the  way 
round  to  the  Fechars  brig,  and  in  parts  o'  the  road  the 
water  was  so  deep  that  it  lapped  his  horse's  bellyband. 
A'  this  time  Mrs.  Gourlay  was  skirling  in  her  pains  and 
praying  to  God  she  micht  dee.  Gourlay  had  been  a 
great  crony  o'  Munn's,  but  he  quarrelled  him  for  being 
late;  he  had  trysted  him,  ye  see,  for  the  occasion,  and  he 
had  been  twenty  times  at  the  yett  to  look  for  him, — ye 
ken  how  little  he  would  stomach  that;  he  was  ready  to 
brust  wi'  anger.  Munn,  mad  for  the  want  of  sleep  and 
wat  to  the  bane,  swiire  back  at  him;  and  than  Gourlay 
wadna  let  him  near  his  wife!  Ye  mind  what  an  awful 
day  it  was;  the  thunder  roared  as  if  the  heavens  were 
tumbling  on  the  world,  and  the  lichtnin  sent  the  trees 
daudin  on  the  roads,  and  folk  hid  below  their  beds  and 
prayed — they  thocht  it  was  the  Judgment!  But  Gourlay 
rammed  his  black  stepper  in  the  shafts,  and  drave  like 
the  devil  o'  hell  to  Skeighan  Drone,  where  there  was  a 
young  doctor.  The  lad  was  feared  to  come,  but  Gourlay 
swore  by  God  that  he  should,  and  he  garred  him.  In  a' 
the  countryside  driving  like  his  that  day  was  never 
kenned  or  heard  tell  o';  they  were  back  within  the  hour! 

[53] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GKEEN  SHUTTEKS 

I  saw  them  gallop  up  Main  Street;  lichtnin  struck  the 
ground  before  them;  the  young  doctor  covered  his  face 
wi'  his  hands,  and  the  horse  nichered  wi'  fear  and  tried 
to  wheel,  but  Gourlay  s^ood  up  in  the  gig  and  lashed 
him  on  through  the  fire.  It  was  thocht  for  lang  that 
Mrs.  Gourlay  would  die;  and  she  was  never  the  same 
woman  after.  Atweel  aye,  sirs,  Gourlay  has  that 
morning's  work  to  blame  for  the  poor  wife  he  has  now. 
Him  and  Munn  never  spoke  to  each  other  again,  and 
Munn  died  within  the  twelvemonth, — he  got  his  death 
that  morning  on  the  Fleckie  Road.  But,  for  a'  so 
pack's  they  had  been,  Gourlay  never  looked  near  him." 
Coe  had  told  his  story  with  enjoying  gusto,  and  had 
told  it  well — for  Johnny,  though  constantly  snubbed  by 
his  fellows,  was  in  many  ways  the  ablest  of  them  all. 
His  voice  and  manner  drove  it  home.  They  knew,  be- 
sides, he  was  telling  what  himself  liad  seen.  For  they 
knew  he  was  lying  prostrate  with  fear  in  the  open 
smiddyshed  from  the  time  Gourlay  went  to  Skeighan 
Drone  to  the  time  that  he  came  back;  and  that  he  had 
seen  him  both  come  and  go.  They  wer^^  silent  for  a 
while,  impressed,  in  spite  of  themselves,  by  the  vivid 
presentment  of  Gourlay 's  ma.ihood  on  the  day  that  had 
scared  them  all.  The  baker  lelt  inclined  to  cry  out  on 
his  cruelty  for  keeping  his  wife  suffering  to  gratify  his 
wrath;  but  the  sudden  picture  of  the  man's  courage 
changed  that  feeling  to  another  of  admiring  awe;  a  man 
so  defiant  of  the  angry  heavens  might  do  anything. 
And  so  with  the  others;  they  hated  Gourlay,  but  his 
bravery  was  a  fact  of  nature  which  they  could  not  disre- 
gard; they  knew  themselves  smaller  and  said  nothing 
for  a  while.     Tam  Brodie,  the  most  brutal  among  them, 

[54] 


CHAPTER  SIX 

was  the  first  to  recover.  Even  lie  did  not  try  to  belittle 
at  once,  but  he  felt  the  subtle  discomfort  of  the  situa- 
tion, and  relieved  it  by  bringing  the  conversation  back 
to  its  usual  channel. 

"  That  was  at  the  boy's  birth,  Mr.  Coe?  "  said  he. 

"  Ou,  aye,  just  the  laddie.  It  was  a'  richt  when  the 
lassie  came.  It  was  Doctor  Dandy  brocht  her  hame,  for 
Munn  was  deid  by  that  time,  and  Dandy  had  his  place." 

"  What  will  Gourlay  be  going  to  make  of  him?  "  the 
Provost  asked.     "A  doctor  or  a  minister  or  wha-at?  " 

"  Deil  a  fear  of  that,"  said  Brodie;  "  he'll  take  him 
into  the  business!  It's  a'  that  he's  fit  for.  He's  an  in- 
fernal dunce,  just  his  father  owre  again,  and  the 
Dominie  thrashes  him  remorseless!  I  hear  my  own 
weans  speaking  o't.  Ou,  it  seems  he's  just  a  perfect 
numbskull!  " 

"  Ye  couldn't  expect  ainything  else  from  a  son  of 
Gourlay,"  said  the  Provost. 

Conversation  languished.  Some  fillip  was  needed  to 
bring  it  to  an  easy  flow,  and  tlie  simultaneous  scrape  of 
their  feet  turning  round  showed  the  direction  of  their 
thoughts. 

"A  dram  would  be  very  acceptable  now,"  murmured 
Sandy  Toddle,  rubbing  his  chin. 

"  Ou,  we  wouldna  be  the  waur  o't,"  said  Tam  Wylie. 

"  We  would  all  be  the  better  of  a  little  drope," 
smirked  the  Deacon. 

And  they  made  for  the  Red  Lion  for  the  matutinal 
dram. 


[  55  ] 


VII 

John  Gouelay,  the  3^ounger,  was  late  for  school,  in 
spite  of  the  nervous  trot  he  fell  into  when  he  shrank  from 
the  bodies' hard  stare  at  him.  There  was  nothing  unusual 
about  that;  he  was  late  for  school  every  other  day.  To 
him  it  was  a  howling  wilderness  where  he  played  a  most 
appropriate  role.  If  his  father  was  not  about  he 
would  hang  roimd  his  mother  till  the  last  moment, 
rather  than  be  off  to  old  "  Bleach-the-boys  " — as  the 
master  had  been  christened  by  his  scholars.  "  Mother, 
I  have  a  pain  in  my  held/'  he  would  whimper,  and  she 
would  condole  with  him  and  tell  him  she  would  keep 
him  at  home  with  her — were  it  not  for  dread  of 
her  husband.  She  was  quite  sure  he  was  ainything 
but  strong,  poor  boy,  and  that  the  schooling  was  bad  for 
him;  for  it  was  really  remarkable  how  quickly  the  pain 
went  if  he  was  allowed  to  stay  at  home;  why,  he  got  bet- 
ter just  directly!  It  was  not  often  she  dared  to  keep 
him  from  school,  however,  and  if  she  did,  she  had  to 
hide  him  from  his  father. 

On  school  mornings  the  boy  shrank  from  going  out 
with  a  shrinking  that  was  almost  physical.  When  he 
stole  through  the  Green  Gate  with  his  bag  slithering 
at  his  hip  (not  braced  between  the  shoulders  like  a  bir- 
kie  scholar's)  he  used  to  feel  ruefully  that  he  was  in  for 
it  now — and  the  Lord  alone  knew  what  he  would  have 
to  put  up  with  ere  he  came  home!     And  he  always  had 

[56] 


CHAPTER  SEVEi^ 

the  feeling  of  a  freed  slave  when  he  passed  the  gate  on 
his  return,  never  failing  to  note  with  delight  the  clean 
smell  of  the  yard  after  the  stuffiness  of  school,  sucking 
it  in  through  glad  nostrils,  and  thinking  to  himself, 
"  Oh,  crickey,  it's  fine  to  be  home!  "  On  Friday  nights, 
in  particular,  he  used  to  feel  so  happy  that,  becoming 
arrogant,  he  would  try  his  hand  at  bullying  Jock  Gil- 
mour  in  imitation  of  his  father.  John's  dislike  of 
school,  and  fear  of  its  trampling  bravoes,  attached 
him  peculiarly  to  the  House  with  the  Green  Shut- 
ters; there  was  his  doting  mother,  and  she  gave  him 
stories  to  read,  and  the  place  was  so  big  that  it  was 
easy  to  avoid  his  father  and  have  great  times  with  the 
rabbits  and  the  doos.  He  was  as  proud  of  the  sonsy 
house  as  Gourlay  himself,  if  for  a  different  reason,  and 
he  used  to  boast  of  it  to  his  comrades.  And  he  never 
left  it,  then  or  after,  witliout  a  foreboding. 

As  he  crept  along  the  School  Eoad  with  a  rueful  face, 
he  was  alone,  for  Janet,  who  was  cleverer  than  he,  was 
always  earlier  at  school.  The  absence  of  children  in 
the  sunny  street  lent  to  his  depression.  He  felt  for- 
lorn; if  there  had  been  a  chattering  crowd  marching 
along,  he  would  have  been  much  more  at  his  ease. 

Quite  recently  the  school  had  been  fitted  up  with  var- 
nished desks,  and  John,  who  inherited  his  mother's  ner- 
vous senses  with  his  father's  lack  of  wit,  was  always 
intensely  alive  to  the  smell  of  the  desks  the  moment 
he  went  in;  and  as  his  heart  always  sank  when  he  went 
in,  the  smell  became  associated  in  his  mind  with  that 
sinking  of  the  heart, — to  feel  it,  no  matter  where,  filled 
him  with  uneasiness.  As  he  stole  past  the  joiner's  on 
that   sunny   morning,    when   wood    was    resinous   and 

[57] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GKEEN  SHUTTERS 

pungent  of  odour,  he  was  suddenly  conscious  of  a  var- 
nishy  smell,  and  felt  a  misgiving  without  knowing 
why.  It  was  years  after,  in  Edinburgh,  ere  he  knew 
the  reason;  he  found  that  he  never  went  past  an  up- 
holsterer's shop,  on  a  hot  day  in  spring,  without  being 
conscious  of  a  vague  depression,  and  feeling  like  a  boy 
slinking  into  school. 

In  spite  of  his  forebodings  nothing  more  untoward 
befell  him  that  morning  than  a  cut  over  the  cowering 
shoulders  for  being  late,  as  he  crept  to  the  bottom  of  his 
class.  He  reached  "  leave,"  the  ten  minutes'  run  at 
twelve  o'clock,  without  misadventure.  Perhaps  it  was 
this  unwonted  good  fortune  that  made  him  boastful, 
when  he  crouched  near  the  pump  among  his  cronies, 
sitting  on  his  hunkers  with  his  back  to  the  wall.  Half 
a  dozen  boys  were  about  him,  and  Swipey  Broon  was  in 
front,  making  mud  pellets  in  a  trickle  from  the  pump. 

He  began  talking  of  the  new  range. 

"Yah!  Auld  Gemmell  needn't  have  let  welp  at  me 
for  being  late  this  morning,"  he  spluttered  big-eyed, 
nodding  his  head  in  aggrieved  and  solemn  protest.  "  It 
wasna  my  faut!  We're  getting  in  a  grand  new  range, 
and  the  whole  of  the  kitchen  fireplace  has  been  gutted 
out  to  make  room  for't,  and  my  mother  couldna  get  my 
breakfast  in  time  this  morning,  because,  ye  see,  she  had 
to  boil  everything  in  the  parlour — and  here,  when  she 
gaed  ben  the  house,  the  parlour  fire  was  out! 

"  It's  to  be  a  splendid  range,  the  new  one,"  he  went  on, 
with  a  conceited  jerk  of  the  head.  "  Peter  Riney's 
bringin'd  from  Skeighan  in  the  afternune.  My  father 
says  there  winna  be  its  equal  in  the  parish!  " 

The  faces,  of  the  boys  lowered  uncomfortably.     They 

[58] 


CHAPTER  SEVEN 

felt  it  was  a  silly  thing  of  Gourlay  to  blow  his  own 
trumpet  in  this  way,  but,  being  boys,  they  could  not 
prick  his  conceit  with  a  quick  rejoinder.  It  is  only 
grown-ups  who  can  be  ironical;  physical  violence  is  the 
boy's  repartee.  It  had  scarcely  gone  far  enough  for 
that  yet,  so  they  lowered  in  uncomfortable  silence. 

"  We're  aye  getting  new  things  up  at  our  place,"  he 
went  on,  "  I  heard  my  father  telling  Gibson  the  build- 
er he  must  have  everything  of  the  best!  Mother  says 
it'll  all  be  mine  some  day.  I'll  have  the  fine  times  when 
I  leave  the  schule, — and  that  winna  be  long  now,  for 
I'm  clean  sick  o't;  I'll  no  bide  a  day  longer  than  I  need! 
I'm  to  go  into  the  business,  and  then  I'll  have  the  times; 
I'll  dash  about  the  country  in  a  gig  wi'  two  dogs  wal- 
lopping  ahin'.     I'll  have  the  great  life  o't." 

"Ph-tt!"  said  Swipey  Broon,  and  planted  a  gob  of 
mud  right  in  the  middle  of  his  brow. 

"Hoh!  hoh!  hoh!  "  yelled  the  others.  They  hailed 
Swipey's  action  with  delight  because,  to  their  minds,  it 
exactly  met  the  case.  It  was  the  one  fit  retort  to  his 
bouncing. 

Beneath  the  wet  plunk  of  the  mud  John  started  back, 
bumping  his  head  against  the  wall  behind  him.  The 
sticky  pellet  clung  to  his  brow,  and  he  brushed  it 
angrily  aside.  The  laughter  of  the  others  added  to  his 
wrath  against  Swipey. 

"  What  are  you  after?  "  lie  bawled.  "  Don't  try  your 
tricks  on  me,  Swipey  Broon.  Man,  I  could  kill  ye  wi' 
a  glower! " 

In  a  twinkling  Swipey's  jacket  was  off  and  he  was 
dancing  in  his  shirt  sleeves,  inviting  Gourlay  to  come 
on  and  try't. 

[59] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GEEEN  SHUTTERS 

"  G'way,  nian/'  said  John,  his  face  as  white  as  the 
wall;  "  g'way,  man!  Dou't  have  me  getting  up  to  ye, 
or  I'll  knock  the  fleas  out  of  your  duds!  " 

Now  the  father  of  Swipey — so  called  because  he  al- 
ways swiped  when  batting  at  rounders — the  father  of 
Swipey  was  the  rag  and  bone  merchant  of  Barbie,  and 
it  was  said  (with  what  degree  of  truth  I  know  not)  that 
his  home  was  verminous  in  consequence.  John's  taunt 
was  calculated,  therefore,  to  sting  him  to  the  quick. 

The  scion  of  the  Broons,  fired  for  the  honour  of 
hia  house,  drove  straight  at  the  mouth  of  the  insulter. 
But  John  jouked  to  the  side,  and  Swipey  skinned  his 
knuckles  on  the  wall. 

For  a  moment  he  rocked  to  and  fro,  doubled  up  in 
pain,  crying  "  Ooli! "  with  a  rueful  face,  and  squeezing 
liis  hand  between  his  thighs  to  dull  its  sharper  agonies. 
Then,  with  redoubled  wrath  bold  Swipey  hurled  him  at 
the  foe.  He  grabbed  Gourlay's  head  and,  shoving  it 
down  between  his  knees,  proceeded  to  pummel  his  bent 
back,  while  John  bellowed  angrily  (from  between 
Swipey 's  legs),  "  Let  me  up,  see!  " 

Swipey  let  him  up.  John  came  at  him  with  whirling 
arms,  but  Swipey  jouked  and  gave  him  one  on  the 
mouth  that  split  his  lip.  In  another  moment  Gourlay 
was  grovelling  on  his  hands  and  knees,  and  triumphant 
Swipey,  astride  his  back,  was  bellowing  "Hurroo!" — 
Swipey 's  father  was  an  Irisliman. 

"  Let  him  up,  Broon!  "  cried  Peter  Wylie.  "  Let  him 
up,  and  meet  each  other  square!  " 

"  Oh,  I'll  let  him  up,"  cried  Swipey  and  leapt  to  his 
feet  with  magnificent  pride.  He  danced  round  Gourlay 
with  his  fists  sawing  the  air.     "  T  could  fighL  ten  of  him! 

[60] 


CHArTER   SEVEN 

Come  on,  Gourlay!  "  he  cried,  "and  I'll  poultice  the 
road  wi'  your  brose." 

John  rose,  glaring.  But  when  Swipey  rushed  he 
turned  and  fled.  The  boys  ran  into  the  middle  of  the 
street,  pointing  ofter  the  coward  and  shouting,  "  Yeh! 
Yeh!  Yeh!  "  with  the  infinite  cruel  derision  of  boyhood. 

"  Yeh!  Yeh!  Yeh!  "  the  cries  of  execration  and  con- 
tempt pursued  him  as  he  ran. 

Ere  he  had  gone  a  hundred  yards  he  heard  the  shrill 
whistle  with  which  Mr.  Gemmell  summoned  his  schol- 
ars from  their  jilay. 


LGl] 


VIII 

All  the  children  had  gone  into  school.  The  street 
was  lonely  in  the  sudden  stillness.  The  joiner  slanted 
across  the  road,  brushing  shavings  and  sawdust  from  his 
white  apron.  There  was  no  other  sign  of  life  in  the 
sunshine.  Only  from  the  sniiddy,  far  away,  came  at 
times  the  tink  of  an  anvil. 

John  crept  on  up  the  street,  keeping  close  to  the  wall. 
It  seemed  unnatural  being  there  at  that  hour;  every- 
thing had  a  quiet  unfamiliar  look.  The  white  walls  of 
the  houses  reproached  the  truant  with  their  silent 
faces. 

A  strong  smell  of  wall  flowers  oozed  through  the 
hot  air.  John  thought  it  a  lonely  smell  and  ran  to 
get  away. 

"Johnny  dear,  what's  wrong  wi'  ye?"  cried  his 
mother,  when  he  stole  in  through  the  scullery  at  last. 
"Are  ye  ill,  dear?  " 

"  I  wanted  to  come  hame,"  he  said.  It  was  no  de- 
fence; it  was  the  sad  and  simple  expression  of  his  wish. 

"  What  for,  my  sweet?  " 

"  I  hate  the  school,"  he  said,  bitterly;  "  I  aye  want  to 
be  at  hame." 

His  mother  saw  his  cut  mouth. 

"  Johnny,"  she  cried  in  concern,  "  what's  the  matter 
with  your  lip,  dear?     Has  ainybody  been  meddling  ye?  " 

[62] 


CHAPTER  EIGHT 

"  It  was  Swipey  Broon,"  he  said. 

"  Did  ever  a  body  hear?  "  she  cried.  "  Things  have 
come  to  a  fine  pass  when  decent  weans  canna  go  to  the 
school  without  a  wheen  rag-folk  yoking  on  them!  But 
what  can  a  body  ettle?  Scotland's  not  what  it  used  to 
be !     It's  owrerun  wi'  the  dirty  Eerish !  " 

In  her  anger  she  did  not  see  the  sloppy  dishclout 
on  the  scullery  chair,  on  which  she  sank  exhausted 
by  her  rage. 

"  Oh,  but  I  let  him  have  it,"  swaggered  John.  "  I 
threatened  to  knock  the  fleas  off  him.  The  other  boys 
were  on  his  side,  or  I  would  have  walloped  him." 

"Atweel,  they  would  a'  be  on  his  side,"  she  cried. 
"  But  it's  juist  envy,  Johnny.  Never  mind,  dear;  you'll 
soon  be  left  the  school,  and  there's  not  wan  of  them  has 
the  business  that  you  have  waiting  ready  to  step  intil." 

"  Mother,"  he  pleaded,  "  let  me  bide  here  for  the  rest 
o'  the  day! " 

"  Oh,  but  your  father,  Johnny?    If  he  saw  ye!  " 

"  If  you  gie  me  some  o'  your  novelles  to  look  at,  I'll 
go  up  to  the  garret  and  hide,  and  ye  can  ask  Jenny  no 
to  tell." 

She  gave  him  a  hunk  of  nuncheon  and  a  bundle  of 
her  novelettes,  and  he  stole  up  to  an  empty  garret  and 
squatted  on  ithe  bare  boards.  The  sun  streamed  through 
the  skylight  window  and  lay,  an  oblong  patch,  in  the 
centre  of  the  floor.  John  noted  the  head  of  a  nail  that 
stuck  gleaming  up.  He  could  hear  the  pigeons  rooketty- 
cooing  on  the  roof,  and  every  now  and  then  a  slithering 
sound,  as  they  lost  their  footing  on  the  slates  and  went 
sliding  downward  to  the  rones.  But  for  that,  all  was 
still,  uncannily  still.     Once  a  zinc  pail  clanked  in  the 

[63] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GEEEN  SHUTTEES 

yard,  and  lie  started  with  fear,  wondering  if  that  was 
his  faither! 

If  young  Gourlay  had  been  the  right  kind  of  a  boy  he 
would  have  been  in  his  glory,  with  books  to  read  and  a 
garret  to  read  them  in.  For  to  snuggle  close  beneath 
the  slates  is  as  dear  to  the  boy  as  the  bard,  if  somewhat 
diverse  their  reasons  for  seclusion.  Your  garret  is  the 
true  kingdom  of  the  poet,  neighbouring  the  stars;  side- 
windows  tether  him  to  earth,  but  a  skylight  looks  to  the 
heavens.  (That  is  why  so  many  poets  live  in  garrets,  no 
doubt.)  But  it  is  the  secrecy  of  a  garret  for  him  and  his 
books  that  a  boy  loves;  there  he  is  lord  of  his  imagina- 
tion; there,  when  the  impertinent  world  is  hidden  from 
his  view,  he  rides  with  great  Turpin  at  night  beneath 
the  glimmer  of  the  moon.  What  boy  of  sense  would 
read  about  Turpin  in  a  mere  respectable  parlour?  A 
hayloft's  the  thing,  where  you  can  hide  in  a  dusty  cor- 
ner, and  watch  through  a  chink  the  baffled  minions  of 
Bow  Street,  and  hear  Black  Bess — good  Jade! — stamp- 
ing in  her  secret  stall,  and  be  ready  to  descend  when  a 
friendly  ostler  cries,  "  Jericho!  "  But  if  there  is  no  hay- 
loft at  hand  a  mere  garret  will  do  very  well.  And  so 
John  should  have  been  in  his  glory, — as  indeed  for  a 
while  he  was.  But  he  shewed  his  difference  from  the 
right  kind  of  a  boy  by  becoming  lonely.  He  had  in- 
herited from  his  mother  a  silly  kind  of  interest  in  silly 
books,  but  to  him  reading  was  a  painful  process,  and  he 
could  never  remember  the  plot.  Wiat  he  liked  best 
(though  he  could  not  have  told  you  about  it)  was  a  vivid 
physical  picture.  When  the  puffing  steam  of  Black 
Bess's  nostrils  cleared  away  from  the  moonlit  pool,  and 
the  white  face  of  the  dead  man  stared  at  Turpin  through 

[61] 


CHAPTER  EIGHT 

the  water,  John  saw  it  and  shivered,  staring  big-eyed  at 
the  staring  horror.  He  was  alive  to  it  all;  he  heard  the 
seep  of  the  water  through  the  mare's  lips,  and  its  hol- 
low glug  as  it  went  down,  and  the  creak  of  the  saddle 
beneath  Turpin's  hip;  he  saw  the  smear  of  sweat  rough- 
ening the  hair  on  her  slanting  neck,  and  the  great  steam- 
ing breath  she  blew  out  when  she  rested  from  drinking, 
and  then  that  awful  face  glaring  from  the  pool. — Per- 
haps he  was  not  so  far  from  being  the  right  kind  of  boy, 
after  all,  since  that  was  the  stuff  that  he  liked. — He 
wished  he  had  some  Turpin  with  him  now,  for  his 
mother's  periodicals  were  all  about  men  with  impossibly 
broad  shoulders  and  impossibly  curved  waists  who  asked 
Angelina  if  she  loved  them.  Once,  it  is  true,  a  some- 
what too  florid  sentence  touched  him  on  the  visual 
nerve :  "  Through  a  chink  in  the  Venetian  blind  a 
long  pencil  of  yellow  light  pierced  the  beautiful  dim- 
ness of  the  room  and  pointed  straight  to  the  dainty 
bronze  slipper  peeping  from  under  Angelina's  gown;  it 
became  a  slipper  of  vivid  gold  amid  the  gloom."  John 
saw  that  and  brightened,  but  the  next  moment  they 
began  to  talk  about  love  and  he  was  at  sea  immediately. 
"  Dagon  them  and  their  love!"  quoth  he. 

To  him,  indeed,  reading  was  never  more  than  a  means 
of  escape  from  something  else;  he  never  thought  of  a 
book  so  long  as  there  were  things  to  see.  Some  things 
were  different  from  others,  it  is  true.  Things  of  the 
outer  world,  where  he  swaggered  among  his  fellows  and 
was  thrashed,  or  bungled  his  lessons  and  was  thrashed 
again,  imprinted  themselves  vividly  on  his  mind,  and  he 
hated  the  impressions.  When  Swipey  Broon  was  hot 
the  sweat  pores  always  glistened  distinctly  on  the  end 

\  65  ] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GREEN  SHUTTERS 

of  his  mottled  nose — John,  as  he  thought  angrily  of 
Swipey  this  afternoon,  saw  the  glistening  sweat  pores 
before  him  and  wanted  to  bash  them.  The  varnishy 
smell  of  the  desks,  the  smell  of  the  wallflowers  at  Mrs, 
Manzie's  on  the  way  to  school,  the  smell  of  the  school 
itself — to  all  these  he  was  morbidly  alive,  and  he  loathed 
them.  But  he  loved  the  impressions  of  his  home.  His 
mind  was  full  of  perceptions  of  which  he  was  uncon- 
scious, till  he  found  one  of  tliem  recorded  in  a  book,  and 
that  was  the  book  for  him.  The  curious  physical 
always  drew  his  mind  to  hate  it  or  to  love.  In  summer 
he  would  crawl  into  the  bottom  of  an  old  hedge,  among 
the  black  mould  and  the  withered  sticks,  and  watch  a 
red-ended  beetle  creep  slowly  up  a  bit  of  wood  till  near 
the  top,  and  fall  suddenly  down,  and  creep  patiently 
again, — this  he  would  watch  with  curious  interest  and 
remember  always.  "Johnny,"  said  his  mother  once, 
"  what  do  you  breenge  into  the  bushes  to  watch  those 
nasty  things  for?  " 

"  They're  queer,"  he  said  musingly. 

Even  if  he  was  a  little  dull  wi'  the  book,  she  was  sure 
he  would  come  to  something,  for,  eh,  he  was  such  a  no- 
ticing boy. 

But  there  was  nothing  to  touch  him  in  "  The  Wooing 
of  Angeline  ";  he  was  moving  in  an  alien  world.  It  was 
a  complicated  plot,  and,  some  of  the  numbers  being  lost, 
he  was  not  sharp  enough  to  catch  the  idea  of  the  story. 
He  read  slowly  and  without  interest.  The  sounds  of  the 
outer  world  reached  him  in  his  loneliness  and  annoyed 
him,  because,  while  wondering  what  they  were,  he 
dared  not  look  out  to  see.  He  heard  the  rattle  of  wheels 
entering  the  big  yard;  that  would  be  Peter  Riney  back 

[66] 


CHAPTER  EIGHT 

from  Skeighan  with  the  range.  Once  he  heard  the  birr 
of  his  father's  voice  in  the  lobby  and  his  mother  speak- 
ing in  shrill  protest,  and  then — oh,  horror! — his  father 
came  up  the  stair.  Would  he  come  into  the  garret? 
John,  lying  on  his  left  side,  felt  his  quickened  heart 
thud  against  the  boards,  and  he  could  not  take  his  big 
frighted  eyes  from  the  bottom  of  the  door.  But  the 
heavy  step  passed  and  went  into  another  room.  John's 
open  mouth  was  dry,  and  his  shirt  was  sticking  to  his 
back. 

The  heavy  steps  came  back  to  the  landing. 

"Whaur's  my  gimlet?"  yelled  his  father  down  the 
stair. 

"  Oh,  I  lost  the  corkscrew,  and  took  it  to  open  a 
bottle,"  cried  his  mother,  wearily.  "  Here  it  is,  man,  in 
the  kitchen  drawer." 

"  Hall !  "  his  father  barked,  and  he  knew  he  was  infer- 
nal angry.     If  he  should  come  in! 

But  he  went  tramping  down  the  stair,  and  John,  after 
waiting  till  his  pulses  were  stilled,  resumed  his  reading. 
He  heard  the  masons  in  the  kitchen,  busy  with  the 
range,  and  he  would  have  liked  fine  to  watch  them,  but  he 
dared  not  go  down  till  after  four.  It  was  lonely  up  here 
by  himself.  A  hot  wind  had  sprung  up,  and  it  crooned 
through  the  keyhole  drearily;  "  oo-woo-oo,"  it  cried, 
and  the  sound  drenched  him  in  a  vague  depression. 
The  splotch  of  yellow  light  had  shifted  round  to  the 
fireplace;  Janet  had  kindled  a  fire  there  last  winter,  and 
the  ashes  had  never  been  removed,  and  now  the  light 
lay,  yellow  and  vivid,  on  a  red  clinker  of  coal,  and  a 
charred  piece  of  stick.  A  piece  of  glossy  white  paper 
had  been  flung  in  the  untidy  grate,  and  in  the  hollow 

[67] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GKEEN  SHUTTKliS 

curve  of  it  a  thin  silt  of  black  dust  had  gathered — the 
light  shewed  it  plainly.  All  these  things  the  boy 
marked  and  was  subtly  aware  of  their  unpleasantness. 
He  was  forced  to  read  to  escape  the  sense  of  them. 
But  it  was  words,  words,  words  that  he  read;  the  sub- 
stance mattered  not  at  all.  His  head  leaned  heavy  on 
his  left  hand  and  his  mouth  hung  open,  as  his  eye  trav- 
elled dreamily  along  the  lines.  He  succeeded  in  hyp- 
notizing his  brain  at  last,  by  the  mere  process  of  staring 
at  the  page. 

At  last  he  heard  Janet  in  the  lobby.  That  meant  thai' 
school  was  over.     He  crept  down  the  stair. 

"  You  were  playing  the  truant,"  said  Janet,  and  shi^- 
nodded  her  head  in  accusation,  "  I've  a  good  mind  to- 
tell  my  faith  er." 

"  If  ye  wud — "  he  said,  and  shook  his  fist  at  hei' 
threateningly.  She  shrank  away  from  him.  They  went 
into  the  kitchen  together. 

Tlie  range  had  been  successfully  installed,  and  Mr. 
Gourlay  was  shewing  it  to  Grant  of  Loranogie,  the  fore- 
most farmer  of  the  shire.  Mrs.  Gourlay,  standing  by 
the  kitchen  table,  viewed  her  new  possession  with  a 
faded  simper  of  approval.  She  was  pleased  that  Mr. 
Grant  should  see  the  grand  new  thing  that  they  had 
gotten.  She  listened  to  the  talk  of  the  men  with  a 
faint  smile  aboiit  her  weary  lips,  her  eyes  upon  the  sonsy 


range. 


"  Dod,  it's  a  handsome  piece  of  furniture,"  said  Lor- 
anogie. "  How  did  ye  get  it  brought  here,  Mr.  Gour- 
lay? " 

"  I  went  to  Glasgow  and  ordered  it  special.  It  came 
to  Skeighan  by  the  train,  and  my  own  beasts  brought 

[68] 


CHAPTER  EIGHT  . 

it  owre.  That  fender's  a  feature,"  he  added,  compla- 
cently; "  it's  onusual  wi'  a  range." 

The  massive  fender  ran  from  end  to  end  of  the  fire- 
place, projecting  a  little  in  front;  its  rim,  a  square  bar  of 
heavy  steel,  with  bright  sharp  edges. 

"  And  that  poker,  too;  man,  there's  a  history  wi'  that. 
I  made  a  point  of  the  making  o't.  He  was  an  ill-bred 
little  whalp,  the  bodie  in  Glasgow.  I  happened  to  say 
till  um  I  would  like  a  poker-heid  just  the  same  size  as 
the  rim  of  the  fender!  'What  d'ye  want  wi'  a  heavy- 
heided  poker?  '  says  he;  *  a'  ye  need's  a  bit  sma'  thing  to 
rype  the  ribs  wi'.'  '  Is  that  so  ?  '  says  I.  '  How  do  you 
ken  what  /  want?'  I  made  short  work  o'  Mm!  The 
poker-heid's  the  identical  size  o'  the  rim;  I  had  it  made 
to  fit!  " 

Loranogie  thought  it  a  silly  thing  of  Gourlay  to  con- 
cern himself  about  a  poker.  But  that  was  just  like  him, 
of  course.  The  moment  the  body  in  Glasgow  opposed 
his  whim,  Gourlay,  he  knew,  would  make  a  point  o't. 

The  grain  merchant  took  the  bar  of  heavy  metal  in 
his  hand.  "  Dod,  it's  an  awful  weapon,"  he  said,  mean- 
ing to  be  jocose.    "  You  could  inurder  a  man  wi't." 

"  Deed  you  could,"  said  Loranogie;  "  you  could  kill 
him  wi'  the  one  lick." 

The  elders,  engaged  with  more  important  matters, 
paid  no  attention  to  the  children,  who  liad  puslied  be- 
tween them  to  the  front  and  were  looking  up  at  their 
faces,  as  they  talked,  with  curious  watching  eyes.  John, 
with  his  instinct  to  notice  things,  took  the  poker  up 
when  his  father  laid  it  down,  to  see  if  it  was  really  the 
size  of  the  rim.  It  was  too  lieavy  for  him  to  raise  by 
tlie  handle;  he  had  to  lift  it  by  the  middle.     Janet  was 

[  60  j 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GREEN  SHUTTERS 

at  his  elbow,  watching  hiin,  "  You  could  kill  a  man 
with  that,"  he  told  her,  importantly,  though  she  had 
heard  it  for  herself.  Janet  stared  and  shuddered. 
Then  the  boy  laid  the  poker-head  along  the  rim,  fitting 
edge  to  edge  with  a  nice  precision. 

"  Mother,"  he  cried,  turning  towards  her  in  his  in- 
terest, "  Mother,  look  here!    It's  exactly  the  same  size!  " 

"  Put  it  down,  sir,"  said  his  father  with  a  grim  smile 
at  Loranogie.     "  You'll  be  killing  folk  next." 


[  70  ] 


IX 

"Are  ye  packit,  Peter?  "  said-  Goiirlay. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  Peter  Einey,  running  round  to  the 
other  side  of  a  cart,  to  fasten  a  horse's  bellyband  to  the 
shaft.     "  Yes,  sir,  we're  a'  ready." 

"  Have  the  carriers  a  big  load?  " 

"Andy  has  just  a  wheen  parcels,  but  Elshie's  as  fu' 
as  he  can  baud.  And  there's  a  gey  pickle  stuff  waiting 
at  the  Cross." 

The  hot  wind  of  yesterday  had  brought  lightning 
through  the  night,  and  this  morning  there  was  the  gen- 
tle drizzle  that  sometimes  follows  a  heavy  thunderstorm. 
Hints  of  the  further  blue  shewed  themselves  in  a  lofty 
sky  of  delicate  and  drifting  grey.  The  blackbirds  and 
thrushes  welcomed  the  cooler  air  with  a  gush  of  musical 
piping,  as  if  the  liquid  tenderness  of  the  morning  had 
actually  got  into  their  throats  and  made  them  softer, 

"  You  had  better  snoove  away  then,"  said  Gourlay. 
"  Donnerton's  five  mile  ayont  Fleckie,  and  by  the  time 
you  deliver  the  meal  there,  and  load  the  ironwork,  it'll 
be  late  ere  you  get  back.  Snoove  away,  Peter;  snoove 
away!  " 

Peter  shuffled  uneasily,  and  his  pale  blue  eyes  blinked 
at  Gourlay  from  beneath  their  grizzled  crow  nests  of 
red  hair. 

"Are  we  a'  to  start  thegither,  sir? "  he  hesitated. 
*'  D'ye  mean — d'ye  mean  the  carriers,  too  ?  " 

[71] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GREEN  SHUTTERS 

"Atweel,  Peter!  "  said  Gourlay.     "  What  for  no?  " 

Peter  took  a  great  old  watch,  with  a  yellow  case,  from 
his  fob,  and,  "  It  wants  a  wdiile  o'  aicht,  sir,"  he  volun- 
teered. 

"Aye,  man,  Peter,  and  what  of  that?  "  said  Gourlay. 

There  was  almost  a  twinkle  in  his  eye.  Peter  Einey 
was  the  only  human  being  with  whom  he  was  ever  really 
at  his  ease.  It  is  only  when  a  mind  feels  secure  in  itself 
that  it  can  laugh  unconcernedly  at  others.  Peter  was 
so  simple  that  in  his  presence  Gourlay  felt  secure;  and 
he  used  to  banter  him. 

"  The  folk  at  the  Cross  winna  expect  the  carriers  till 
aicht,  sir,"  said  Peter,  "  and  I  doubt  their  stuff  won't 
be  ready." 

"Aye,  man,  Peter! "  Gourlay  joked  lazily,  as  if  Peter 
was  a  little  boy.  "Aye,  man,  Peter!  You  think  the 
folk  at  the  Cross  winna  be  prepared  ?  " 

"  No,  sir,"  said  Peter,  opening  his  eyes  very  solemnly, 
"  they  winna  be  prepared." 

"It'll  do  them  good  to  hurry  a  little  for  once," 
growled  Gourlay,  humour  yielding  to  spite  at  the 
thought  of  liis  enemies.  "  It'll  do  them  good  to  hurry 
a  little  for  once!     Be  off,  the  lot  of  ye!  " 

After  ordering  his  carriers  to  start,  to  back  down  and 
postpone  their  departure,  just  to  suit  the  convenience 
of  his  neighbours,  would  derogate  from  his  own  im- 
portance. His  men  might  think  he  was  afraid  of 
Barbie. 

He  strolled  out  to  the  big  gate  and  watched  his  teams 
going  down  the  brae. 

There  were  only  four  carts  this  morning  because  the 
two  that  had  gone  to  Fechars  yesterday  with  the  cheese 

[72] 


CHAPTER  NINE 

would  not  be  back  till  the  afternoon;  and  another  had 
already  turned  west  to  Auchterwheeze,  to  bring  slates 
for  the  flesher's  new  house.  Of  the  four  that  went  down 
the  street  two  were  the  usual  carrier's  carts,  the  other  two 
were  off  to  Fleckie  with  meal,  and  Gourlay  had  started 
them  the  sooner  since  they  were  to  bring  back  the  iron- 
work which  Templandmuir  needed  for  his  new  improve- 
ments. Though  the  Templar  had  reformed  greatly 
since  he  married  his  birkie  wife,  he  was  still  far  from 
having  his  place  in  proper  order,  and  he  had  often  to 
depend  on  Gourlay  for  the  carrying  of  stuff  which  a 
man  in  his  position  should  have  had  horses  of  his  own  to 
bring. 

As  Gourlay  stood  at  his  gate  he  pondered  with  heavy 
cunning  how  much  he  might  charge  Templandmuir  for 
bringing  the  ironwork  from  Fleckie.  He  decided  to 
charge  him  for  the  whole  day,  though  half  of  it  would 
be  spent  in  taking  his  own  meal  to  Donnerton.  In  that 
he  was  carrying  out  his  iisual  policy — which  was  to  make 
each  side  of  his  business  help  the  other. 

As  he  stood  puzzling  his  wits  over  Templandmuir's 
account,  his  lips  worked  in  and  out,  to  assist  the  slow 
process  of  his  brain.  His  eyes  narrowed  between  peer- 
ing lids,  and  their  light  seemed  to  turn  inward  as  he 
fixed  them  abstractedly  on  a  stone  in  the  middle  of  the 
road.  His  head  was  tilted  that  he  might  keep  his 
eyes  upon  the  stone;  and  every  now  and  then,  as  he 
mused,  he  rubbed  his  chin  slowly  between  the  thumb 
and  fingers  of  his  left  hand.  Entirely  given  up  to 
the  thought  of  Templandmuir's  account  he  failed  to 
see  the  figure  advancing  up  the  street. 

At  last  the  scrunch  of  a  boot  on  the  wet  road  struck 

[73] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GKEEN  SHUTTERS 

his  ear.  He  turned  with  his  best  glower  on  the  man 
who  was  approaching;  more  of  the  "  Wha-the-bleezes- 
are-you  ?  "  look  than  ever  in  his  eyes — because  he  had 
been  caught  unawares. 

The  stranger  wore  a  light  yellow  overcoat,  and  he  had 
been  walking  a  long  time  in  the  rain,  apparently,  for  the 
shoulders  of  the  coat  were  quite  black  with  the  wet, 
these  black  patches  showing  in  strong  contrast  with  the 
dryer,  therefore  yellower,  front  of  it.  Coat  and  jacket 
were  both  hanging  slightly  open,  and  between  was  seen 
the  slight  bulge  of  a  dirty  white  waistcoat.  The  new- 
comer's trousers  were  turned  high  at  the  bottom,  and 
the  muddy  spats  he  wore  looked  big  and  ungainly  in 
consequence.  In  his  appearance  there  was  an  air  of 
dirty  and  pretentious  well-to-do-ness.  It  was  not 
shabby  gentility.  It  was  like  the  gross  attempt  at 
dress  of  your  well-to-do  publican  who  looks  down  on 
his  soiled  white  waistcoat  with  complacent  and  approv- 
ing eye. 

"  It's  a  fine  morning,  Mr.  Gourlay!  "  simpered  the 
stranger.  His  air  was  that  of  a  forward  tenant  who 
thinks  it  a  great  thing  to  pass  remarks  on  the  weather 
with  his  laird. 

Gourlay  cast  a  look  at  the  dropping  heavens. 

"Is  that  your  opinion?"  said  he.  "I  fail  to  see't 
mysell." 

It  was  not  in  Gourlay  to  see  the  beauty  of  that  grey 
wet  dawn.  A  fine  morning  to  him  was  one  that  burnt 
the  back  of  your  neck. 

The  stranger  laughed;  a  little  deprecating  giggle. 
"  I  meant  it  was  fine  weather  for  the  fields,"  he  ex- 
plained.    He  had  meant  nothing  of  the  kind,  of  course; 

[74] 


CHAPTER  NINE 

he  had  merely  been  talking  at  random  in  his  wish  to 
be  civil  to  that  important  man,  John  Gourlay. 

"  Imphm/'  he  pondered,  looking  round  on  the 
weather  with  a  wise  air;  "  Imphm;  it's  fine  weather  for 
the  fields! " 

"  Are  you  a  farmer  then?  "  Gourlay  nipped  him,  with 
his  eye  on  the  white  waistcoat. 

"  Oh — oh,  Mr,  Gourlay!  A  farmer,  no.  Hi — hi!  I'm 
not  a  farmer.  I  daresay,  now,  you  have  no  mind  of  me !  " 

"  No,"  said  Grourlay,  regarding  him  very  gravely  and 
steadily  with  his  dark  eyes.  "  I  cannot  say,  sir,  that  I 
have  the  pleasure  of  remembering  you !  " 

"  Man,  I'm  a  son  of  auld  John  Wilson  of  Brigabee!  " 

"  Oh,  auld  Wilson,  the  mole-catcher!  "  said  con- 
temptuous Gourlay.  "  What's  this  they  christened  him 
now?      *  Toddling  Johnnie,'  was  it  noat?  " 

Wilson  coloured.  But  he  sniggered  to  gloss  over  the 
awkwardness  of  the  remark.  A  coward  always  sniggers 
when  insulted,  pretending  that  the  insult  is  only  a  joke 
of  his  opponent,  and  therefore  to  be  laughed  aside.  So 
he  escapes  the  quarrel  which  he  fears  a  show  of  displeas- 
ure might  provoke. 

But,  though  Wilson  was  not  a  hardy  man,  it  was  not 
timidity  only  that  caused  his  tame  submission  to 
Gourlay, 

He  had  come  back  after  an  absence  of  fifteen  years, 
with  a  good  deal  of  money  in  his  pocket,  and  he  had  a 
fond  desire  that  he,  the  son  of  the  mole-catcher,  should 
get  some  recognition  of  his  prosperity  from  the  most 
important  man  in  the  locality.  If  Gourlay  had  said, 
with  solemn  and  fat-lipped  approval,  "  Man,  I'm  glad  to 
see  that  you  have  done  so  well!  "  he  would  have  swelled 

[75] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GKEEN  SHUTTERS 

with  gratified  pride.  For  it  is  often  the  favourable  esti- 
mate of  their  own  little  village — "  What  they'll  think  of 
me  at  home  " — that  matters  most  to  Scotsmen  who  go 
out  to  make  their  way  in  the  world.  No  doubt  that  is 
why  so  many  of  them  go  home  and  cut  a  dash  when 
they  have  made  their  fortunes;  they  want  the  cronies 
of  their  youth  to  see  the  big  men  they  have  become. 
Wilson  was  not  exempt  from  that  weakness.  As  far 
back  as  he  remembered  Gourlay  had  been  the  big  man  of 
Barbie;  as  a  boy  he  had  viewed  him  with  admiring  awe; 
to  be  received  by  him  now,  as  one  of  the  well-to-do,  were 
a  sweet  recognition  of  his  greatness.  It  was  a  fawning 
desire  for  that  recognition  that  caused  his  smirking 
approach  to  the  grain  merchant.  So  strong  was  the  de- 
sire that,  though  he  coloured  and  felt  awkward  at  the 
contemptuous  reference  to  his  father,  he  sniggered  and 
went  on  talking,  as  if  nothing  untoward  had  been  said. 
He  was  one  of  the  band  impossible  to  snub,  not  because 
they  are  endowed  with  superior  moral  courage,  but  be- 
cause their  easy  self-importance  is  so  great,  that  an  in- 
sult rarely  pierces  it  enough  to  divert  them  from  their 
purpose.  They  walk  through  life  wrapped  comfort- 
ably round  in  the  wool  of  their  own  conceit.  Gourlay, 
though  a  dull  man — perhaps  because  he  was  a  dull  man 
— suspected  insult  in  a  moment.  But  it  rarely  entered 
Wilson's  brain  (though  he  was  cleverer  than  most)  that 
tlie  world  could  find  anything  to  scoff  at  in  such  a  fine 
fellow  as  James  Wilson.  A  less  ironic  brute  than  Gour- 
lay would  never  have  pierced  the  thickness  of  his  hide. 
It  was  because  Gourlay  succeeded  in  piercing  it  that 
morning,  that  Wilson  hated  him  for  ever — with  a  hate 
the  more  bitter  because  he  was  rebuffed  so  seldom. 

[  76  ] 


CHAPTER  NINE 

"Is  business  brisk?"  he  asked,  irrepressible. 

Business!  Heavens,  did  ye  hear  him  talking?  What 
did  Toddling  Johnny's  son  know  about  business?  What 
was  the  world  coming  to?  To  hear  him  setting  up  his 
face  there,  and  asking  the  best  merchant  in  the  town 
whether  business  was  brisk!  It  was  high  time  to  put 
him  in  his  place,  the  conceited  upstart,  shoving  himself 
forward  like  an  equal! 

For  it  was  the  assumption  of  equality  implied  by  Wil- 
son's manner  that  offended  Gourlay — as  if  mole-catch- 
er's son  and  monopolist  were  discussing,  on  equal  terms, 
matters  of  interest  to  them  both. 

"Business!"  he  said  gravely.  "Well,  I'm  not  well 
acquainted  with  your  line,  but  I  believe  mole  traps  are 
cheap — if  ye  have  any  idea  of  taking  up  the  oald  trade!  " 

Wilson's  eyes  flickered  over  him,  hurt  and  dubious. 
His  mouth  opened — then  shut — then  he  decided  to 
speak  after  all.  "  Oh,  I  was  thinking  Barbie  would  be 
very  quiet,"  said  he,  "  compared  wi'  places  where  they 
have  the  railway!  I  was  thinking  it  would  need  stirring 
up  a  bit." 

"  Oh,  ye  was  thinking  that,  was  ye?  "  birred  Gourlay, 
with  a  stupid  man's  repetition  of  his  Jibe.  "  Well;  I 
believe  there's  a  grand  opening  in  the  moleskin  line,  so 
there'' s  a  chance  for  ye!  My  quarrymen  wear  out  their 
breeks  in  no  time!  " 

Wilson's  face,  which  had  swelled  with  red  shame, 
went  a  dead  white.  "  Good-morning!  "  he  said,  and 
started  rapidly  away  with  a  vicious  dig  of  his  stick  upon 
the  wet  road. 

"  Goo-ood  mor-r-ning,  serr! "  Gourlay  birred  after 
him;  "  Goo-ood  mor-r-ning,  serr!  "     He  felt  he  had 

[77] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GREEN  SHUTTERS 

been  bright  this  morning.     He  had  put  the  branks  on 
Wilson! 

AVilson  was  as  furious  at  himself  as  at  Gourlay.  Why 
the  devil  had  he  said  "  Good  morning? "  It  had 
slipped  out  of  him  unawares,  and  Gourlay  had  taken  it 
up  with  an  ironic  birr  that  rang  in  his  ears  now,  poison- 
ing his  blood.  He  felt  equal  in  fancy  to  a  thousand 
Gourlays  now — so  strong  was  he  in  wrath  against  him. 
He  had  gone  forward  to  pass  pleasant  remarks  about  the 
weather,  and  why  should  he  noat? — he  was  no  disgrace 
to  Barbie,  but  a  credit  rather.  It  was  not  every  work- 
ing man's  son  that  came  back  with  five  hundred  in  the 
bank.  And  here  Gourlay  had  treated  him  like  a  doag! 
Ah,  well,  he  would  maybe  be  upsides  with  Gourlay  yet, 
so  he  might! 


[78] 


X 

*'  Such  a  rickle  of  furniture  I  never  saw! "  said  the 
Provost. 

"  Whose  is  it?  "  said  Brodie. 

"Oh,  have  ye  noat  heard?"  said  the  Head  of  the 
Town  with  eyebrows  in  air.  "  It  beloangs  to  that  fel- 
low Wilson,  doan't  ye  know?  He's  a  son  of  oald  Wilson, 
the  mowdie-man  of  Brigabee.  It  seems  we're  to  have 
him  for  a  neighbour,  or  all's  bye  wi't.  I  declare  I  doan't 
loiow  what  this  world's  coming  to!  " 

"  Man,  Provost,"  said  Brodie,  "  d'ye  tell  me  tha-at? 
I've  been  over  at  Fleckie  for  the  last  ten  days — my 
brother  Rab's  dead  and  won  away,  as  I  daresay  you  have 
heard — oh,  yes,  we  must  all  go — so,  ye  see,  I'm  scarcely 
abreast  o'  the  latest  intelligence.  What's  Wilson  doing 
here?    I  thought  he  had  been  a  pawnbroker  in  Embro." 

"  Noat  he!  It's  whispered  indeed,  that  he  left  Briga- 
bee to  go  and  help  in  a  pawmbroker's,  but  it  seems  he 
married  an  Aberdeen  lass  and  sattled  there  after  awhile, 
the  manager  of  a  store,  I  have  been  given  to  understa- 
and.  He  has  taken  oald  Rab  Jamieson's  barn  at  the 
bottom  of  the  Cross — for  what  purpose  it  beats  even  me 
to  tell!     And  that's  his  furniture " 

"I  declare!"  said  the  astonished  Brodie,  "He's  a 
smart-looking  boy  that.     Will  that  be  a  son  of  his?  " 

He  pointed  to  a  sharp-faced  urchin  of  twelve  who  was 
busy  carrying  chairs  round  the  corner  of  the  barn,  to 

[79] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GEEEN  SHUTTERS 

the  tiny  house  where  Wilson  meant  to  live.  He  was  a 
red-haired  boy  with  an  upturned  nose,  dressed  in  shirt 
and  knickerbockers  only.  The  cross  of  his  braces  came 
comically  near  his  neck — so  short  was  the  space  of  shirt 
between  the  top  line  of  his  breeches  and  his  shoulders. 
His  knickers  were  open  at  the  knee,  and  the  black  stock- 
ings below  them  were  wrinkled  slackly  down  his  thin 
legs,  being  tied  loosely  above  the  calf  with  dirty  white 
strips  of  cloth  instead  of  garters.  He  had  no  cap,  and  it 
was  seen  that  his  hair  had  a  "  cow-lick  "  in  front;  it 
slanted  up  from  his  brow,  that  is,  in  a  sleek  kind  of 
tuft.  There  was  a  violent  squint  in  one  of  his  sharp 
grey  eyes,  so  that  it  seemed  to  flash  at  the  world  across 
the  bridge  of  his  nose.  He  was  so  eager  at  his  work  that 
his  clumsy-looking  boots — they  only  looked  clumsy  be- 
cause the  legs  they  were  stuck  to  were  so  thin — skidded 
on  the  cobbles  as  he  whipped  round  the  barn  with  a 
chair  inverted  on  his  poll.  When  he  came  back  for 
another  chair,  he  sometimes  wheepled  a  tune  of  his  own 
making,  in  shrill  disconnected  jerks,  and  sometimes 
wiped  his  nose  on  his  sleeve.  And  the  bodies  watched 
him. 

"  Faith,  he's  keen,"  said  the  Provost. 

"  But  what  on  earth  has  Wilson  ta'en  auld  Jamieson's 
house  and  barn  for?  They  have  stude  empty  since  I 
kenna  whan,"  quoth  Alexander  Toddle,  forgetting  his 
English  in  surprise. 

"  They  say  he  means  to  start  a  business!  He's  made 
some  bawbees  in  Aiberdeen,  they're  telling  me,  and  he 
thinks  he'll  set  Barbie  in  a  lowe  wi't." 

"  Ou,  he  means  to  work  a  perfect  revolution,"  said 
Jolinny  Coe. 

[80] 


CHAPTER  TEN 

"  In  Barbie!  "  cried  astounded  Toddle. 

"  In  Barbie  e'en't,"  said  the  Provost. 

"  It  would  take  a  heap  to  revolutionize  /li^,"  said  the 
baker,  the  ironic  man. 

"  There's  a  chance  in  that  hoose,"  Brodie  burst  out, 
ignoring  the  baker's  jibe.  "  Dod,  there's  a  chance,  sirs. 
I  wonder  it  never  occurred  to  me  before." 

"  Are  ye  thinking  ye  have  missed  a  gude  thing?  " 
grinned  the  Deacon. 

But  Brodie's  lips  were  working  in  the  throes  of  com- 
mercial speculation,  and  he  stared,  heedless  of  the  jibe. 
So  Johnny  Coe  took  up  his  sapient  parable. 

"  iVtweel,"  said  he,  "  there's  a  chance,  Mr.  Brodie. 
That  road  round  to  the  back's  a  handy  thing.  You 
could  take  a  horse  and  cart  brawly  through  an  opening 
like  that.  And  there's  a  gey  bit  ground  at  the  back, 
too,  when  a  body  comes  to  think  o't." 

"What  line's  he  meaning  to  purshoo?"  queried 
Brodie,  whose  mind,  quickened  by  the  chance  he  saw 
at  Xo.  1,  The  Cross,  was  hot  on  the  hunt  of  its  possi- 
bilities. 

"  He's  been  very  close  about  that,"  said  the  Provost. 
"  I  asked  Johnny  Gibson — it  was  him  had  the  selling  o't 
— but  he  couldn't  give  me  ainy  satisfaction.  All  he 
could  say  was  that  Wilson  had  bought  it  and  paid  it. 
'  But,  losh ! '  said  I,  '  he  maun  'a'  lat  peep  what  he 
wanted  the  place  for! '  But  na;  it  seems  he  was  owre 
auld-farrant  for  the  like  of  that.  '  We'll  let  the  folk 
wonder  for  a  while,  Mr.  Gibson,'  he  had  said.  '  The  less 
we  tell  them,  the  keener  they'll  be  to  ken;  and  they'll 
advertise  me  for  noathing  by  spiering  one  another  what 
I'm  up  till.' " 

[81] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GREEN  SHUTTERS 

"  Cunning! "  said  Brodie,  breathing  the  word  low  in 
expressive  admiration. 

"  Demned  cute!  "  said  Sandy  Toddle. 

"  Very  thmart!  "  said  the  Deacon. 

"  But  the  place  has  been  falling  down  since  ever  I 
have  mind  o't/'  said  Sandy  Toddle.  "  He's  a  very 
clever  man  if  he  makes  anything  out  of  that." 

"  Well,  well,"  said  the  Provost,  "  we'll  soon  see  what 
he's  meaning  to  be  at.  Now  that  his  furniture's  in,  he 
surely  canna  keep  us  in  the  dark  much  loanger!  " 

Their  curiosity  was  soon  appeased.  Within  a  week 
they  were  privileged  to  read  the  notice  here  appended: 

"Mr.  James  Wilson  begs  to  announce  to  the  inhabitants  of 
Barbie  and  surrounding  neighbourhood  that  he  has  taken  these 
commodious  premises,  No.  1,  The  Cross,  which  he  intends  to 
open  shortly  as  a  Grocery,  Ironmongery,  and  General  Provision 
Store.  J.  W.  is  apprised  that  such  an  Emporium  has  long  been 
a  felt  want  in  the  locality.  To  meet  this  want  is  J.  W.'s  inten- 
tion. He  will  try  to  do  so,  not  by  making  large  profits  on  a 
small  business,  but  by  making  small  profits  on  a  large  business. 
Indeed,  owing  to  his  long  acquaintance  with  the  trade  Mr. 
Wilson  will  be  able  to  supply  all  commodities  at  a  very  little 
over  cost  price.  For  J.  W.  will  use  those  improved  methods 
of  business  which  have  been  confined  hitherto  to  the  larger 
centres  of  population.  At  his  Emporium  you  will  be  able,  as 
the  saying  goes,  to  buy  everything  from  a  needle  to  an  anchor. 
Moreover,  to  meet  the  convenience  of  his  customers,  J.  W.  will 
deliver  goods  at  your  own  doors,  distributing  them  with  his 
own  carts  either  in  the  town  of  Barbie  or  at  any  convenient 
distance  from  the  same.  Being  a  native  of  the  district,  his 
business  hopes  to  secure  a  due  share  of  your  esteemed  patron- 
age. Thanking  you,  in  anticipation,  for  the  favour  of  an  early 
visit,  Believe  me.  Ladies  and  Gentlemen, 

"  Yours  faithfully, 

"James  Wilson." 

[82] 


CHAPTER   TEN 

Such  was  the  poster  with  which  "  Barbie  and  sur- 
rounding neighbourhood  "  were  besprinkled  within  a 
week  of  "  J.  W.'s  "  appearance  on  the  scene.  He  was 
known  as  "  J.  W."  ever  after.  To  be  known  by  your 
initials  is  sometimes  a  mark  of  affection,  and  sometimes 
a  mark  of  disrespect.  It  was  not  a  mark  of  affection 
in  the  case  of  our  "  J.  W."  When  Donald  Scott  slapped 
him  on  the  back  and  cried  "  Hullo,  J.  W.,  how  are  the 
anchors  selling?  "  Barbie  had  found  a  cue  which  it  was 
not  slow  to  make  use  of.  Wilson  even  received  letters 
addressed  to  "J.  W.,  Anchor  Merchant,  No.  1,  The 
Cross."     Ours  is  a  nippy  locality. 

But  Wilson,  cosy  and  cocky  in  his  own  good  opinion, 
was  impervious  to  the  chilly  winds  of  scorn.  His  post- 
ers, in  big  blue  letters,  were  on  the  smiddy  door  and  on 
the  sides  of  every  brig  within  a  circuit  of  five  miles; 
they  were  pasted,  in  smaller  red  letters,  on  the  gate- 
posts of  every  farm;  and  Kobin  Tam,  the  bellman, 
handed  them  about  from  door  to  door.  The  folk  could 
talk  of  nothing  else. 

"  Dod!  "  said  the  Provost  when  he  read  the  bill, 
"we've  a  new  departure  here!  This  is  an  unco  splut- 
ter, as  the  oald  sow  said  when  she  tumbled  in  the 
gutter." 

"Aye,"  said  Sandy  Toddle,  "  a  fuff  in  the  pan,  Pm 
thinking.  He  promises  owre  muckle  to  last  long!  He 
lauchs  owre  loud  to  be  merry  at  the  end  o't.  For  the 
loudest  bummler's  no  the  best  bee,  as  my  father,  honest 
man,  used  to  tell  the  minister." 

"Ah-ah,  I'm  no  so  sure  o'  that,"  said  Tam  Brodie. 
"  I  foregathered  wi'  Wilson  on  Wednesday  last,  and  I  tell 
ye,  sirs,  he's  worth  the  watching.     They'll  need  to  stand 

[83] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GREEN  SHUTTERS 

on  a  baikie  that  put  the  branks  on  him.  He  has  the 
considering  eye  in  his  head — yon  lang  far-away  glim- 
mer at  a  thing  from  out  the  end  of  the  eyebrow.  He 
turned  it  on  mysell  twa-three  times,  the  cunning  devil, 
trying  to  keek  into  me,  to  see  if  he  could  use  me.  And 
look  at  the  chance  he  has!  There's  two  stores  in  Barbie, 
to  be  sure;  but  Kinnikum's  a  dirty  beast,  and  folk  have 
a  scunner  at  his  goods,  and  Catherwood's  a  dru'cken 
swine,  and  his  place  but  sairly  guided.  That's  a  great 
stroke  o'  polic}-,  too,  promising  to  deliver  folk's  goods 
on  their  own  doorstep  to  them.  There's  a  whole  jing- 
bang  of  out-lying  clachans  round  Barbie  that  he'll  get 
the  trade  of  by  a  dodge  like  that.  The  like  was  never 
tried  hereaway  before.  I  wadna  wonder  but  it  works 
wonders." 

It  did. 

It  was  partly  policy  and  partly  accident  that  brought 
Wilson  back  to  Barbie.  He  had  been  managing  a 
wealthy  old  merchant's  store  for  a  long  time  in  Aber- 
deen, and  he  had  been  blithely  looking  forward  to  the 
goodwill  of  it,  when  jink,  at  the  old  man's  death,  in 
stepped  a  nephew,  and  ousted  the  poo-oor  fellow.  He 
had  baAvled  shrilly,  but  to  no  purpose;  he  had  to  be 
travelling.  When  he  rose  to  greatness  in  Barbie  it  was 
whispered  that  the  nephew  discovered  he  was  feathering 
his  own  nest,  and  that  this  was  the  reason  of  his  sharp 
dismissal.  But  perhaps  we  should  credit  that  report 
to  Barbie's  disposition  rather  than  to  Wilson's  misde- 
meanour. 

Wilson  might  have  set  up  for  himself  in  the  nippy 
northern  town.  But  it  is  an  instinct  with  men  who 
have  met  with  a  rebuff  in  a  place,  to  shake  its  dust  from 

[84] 


CHAPTER  TEN 

their  shoes,  and  be  off  to  seek  their  fortunes  in  the  larger 
world.  We  take  a  scunner  at  the  place  that  has  ill-used 
us.  Wilson  took  a  scunner  at  Aberdeen,  and  decided  to 
leave  it  and  look  around  him.  Scotland  was  opening 
up,  and  there  were  bound  to  be  heaps  of  chances  for  a 
man  like  him!  "A  man  like  me,"  was  a  frequent  phrase 
of  Wilson's  retired  and  solitary  speculation.  "Aye," 
he  said,  emerging  from  one  of  his  business  reveries, 
"  there's  bound  to  be  heaps  o'  chances  for  a  man  like  me, 
if  I  only  look  about  me." 

He  was  "  looking  about  him  "  in  Glasgow  when  he 
foregathered  with  his  cousin  William — the  borer  he! 
After  many  "  How  are  ye,  Jims's  "  and  mutual  spierings 
over  a  "  bit  mouthful  of  yill  " — so  they  phrased  it,  but 
that  was  a  meiosis,  for  they  drank  five  quarts — they  fell 
to  a  serious  discussion  of  the  commercial  possibilities 
of  Scotland.  The  borer  was  of  the  opinion  that  the 
Braes  of  Barbie  had  a  future  yet,  "  for  a'  the  gaifer  was 
so  keen  on  keeping  his  men  in  the  dark  about  the  coal." 

Now  Wilson  knew  (as  what  Scotsman  does  not?)  that 
in  the  middle-fifties  coal-boring  in  Scotland  was  not  the 
honourable  profession  that  it  now  is.  More  than  once, 
speculators  procured  lying  reports  that  there  were  no 
minerals,  and  after  landowners  had  been  ruined  by 
their  abortive  preliminary  experiments,  stepped  in, 
bought  the  land  and  boomed  it.  In  one  notorious  case 
a  family,  now  great  in  the  public  eye,  bribed  a  laird's 
own  borers  to  conceal  the  trutli,  and  then  buying  the 
Golconda  from  its  impoverished  owner,  laid  the  basis  of 
a  vast  fortune. 

"  D'ye  mean — to  tell — me,  Weelynm  Wilson,"  said 
James,  giving  him  his  full  name  in  the  solemnity  of  the 

[85] 


ii 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GREEN  SHUTTEKS 

moment,  "  d'ye  mean — to  tell — me,  sir  " — here  he  sank 
his  voice  to  a  whisper — "  that  there's  joukery-pawkery 
at  work?  " 

"A  declare  to  God  A  div,"  said  Weelyum  with  equal 
solemnity,  and  he  nodded  with  alarmed  sapience  across 
his  beer  jug. 

"  You  believe  there's  plenty  of  coal  up  Barbie  Valley, 
and  that  they're  keeping  it  dark  in  the  meantime  for 
some  purpose  of  their  own  ?  " 
I  do,"  said  Weelyum. 

God!  "  said  James,  gripping  the  table  with  both 
hands  in  his  excitement,  "  God,  if  that's  so,  what  a 
chance  there's  in  Barbie!  It  has  been  a  dead  town  for 
twenty  year,  and  twenty  to  the  end  o't.  A  verra  little 
would  buy  the  hauf  o't.  But  property  'ull  rise  in  value 
like  a  puddock  stool  at  dark,  serr,  if  the  pits  come  round 
it!  It  will  that.  If  I  was  only  sure  o'  your  suspeecion, 
Weelyum,  I'd  invest  every  bawbee  I  have  in't.  You're 
going  home  the  night,  are  ye  not?  " 

"  I  was  just  on  my  road  to  the  station  when  I  met 
ye,"  said  Weelyum. 

"  Send  me  a  scrape  of  your  pen  to-morrow,  man,  if 
what  you  see  on  getting  back  keeps  you  still  in  the  same 
mind  o't.  And  directly  I  get  your  letter,  I'll  run  down 
and  look  about  me." 

The  letter  was  encouraging,  and  Wilson  went  forth 
to  spy  the  land,  and  initiate  the  plan  of  campaign.  It 
was  an  important  day  for  him.  He  entered  on  his  feud 
with  Gourlay,  and  bought  Eab  Jamieson's  house  and 
barn  (with  the  field  behind  it)  for  a  trifle.  He  had  five 
hundred  of  his  own,  and  he  knew  where  more  could  be 
had  for  the  asking. 

[86] 


CHAPTER  TEN 

Eab  Jamieson's  barn  was  a  curious  building  to  be 
stranded  in  the  midst  of  Barbie.  In  quaint  villages  and 
little  towns  of  England  you  sometimes  see  a  mellow 
red-tiled  barn,  with  its  rich  yard,  close  upon  the  street; 
it  seems  to  have  been  hemmed  in  by  the  houses  round, 
while  dozing,  so  that  it  could  not  escape  with  the  fields 
fleeing  from  the  town.  There  it  remains  and  gives  a 
ripeness  to  the  place,  matching  fitly  with  the  great  horse- 
chestnut  yellowing  before  the  door,  and  the  old  inn 
further  down,  mantled  in  its  blood-red  creepers.  But 
that  autumnal  warmth  and  cosiness  is  rarely  seen  in  the 
barer  streets  of  the  north.  How  Eab  Jamieson's  barn 
came  to  be  stuck  in  Barbie  nobody  could  tell.  It  was 
a  gaunt  grey  building  with  never  a  window,  but  a  bole 
high  in  one  corner  for  the  sheaves,  and  a  door  low  in 
another  corner  for  auld  Eab  Jamieson.  There  was  no 
mill  inside,  and  the  place  had  not  been  used  for  years. 
But  the  roof  was  good,  and  the  walls  stout  and  thick, 
and  Wilson  soon  got  to  work  on  his  new  possession. 
He  had  seen  all  that  could  be  made  of  the  place  the 
moment  he  clapped  an  eye  on  it,  and  he  knew  that  he 
had  found  a  good  thing,  even  if  the  pits  should  never 
come  near  Barbie.  The  bole  and  door  next  the  street 
were  walled  up,  and  a  fine  new  door  opened  in  the  mid- 
dle, flanked  on  either  side  by  a  great  window.  The  in- 
terior was  fitted  up  with  a  couple  of  counters  and 
a  wooden  floor;  and  above  the  new  wood  ceiling 
there  was  a  long  loft  for  a  store  room,  lighted  by 
skylights  in  the  roof.  Th",t  loft  above  the  rafters, 
thought  the  provident  Wilson,  will  come  in  braw 
and  handy  for  storing  things,  so  it  will.  And  there, 
hey  presto!  the  transformation  was  achieved,  and  Wil- 

[87] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GEEEN  SHUTTEKS 

son's  Emporium  stood  before  you.  It  was  crammed 
with  merchandise.  On  the  white  flapping  slant  of  a 
couple  of  awnings,  one  over  each  window,  you  might 
read  in  black  letters,  "JAMES  WILSON:  EMPO- 
RIUM." The  letters  of  "  James  Wilson  "  made  a  tri- 
umphal arch,  to  which  "  Emporium  "  was  the  base.  It 
seemed  symbolical. 

Now,  the  shops  of  Barbie  (the  drunken  man's  shop 
and  the  dirty  man's  shop  always  excepted,  of  course) 
had  usually  been  low-browed  little  places  with  faded 
black  scrolls  above  the  door,  on  which  you  might  read 
in  dim  gilt  letters  (or  it  might  be,  in  white) 

" LicENS'D   To  Sell   Tea  5r   Tobacco." 

"  Ljcens'd"  wsiB  on  one  corner  of  the  ribboned  scroll, 
"To  Sell  Tea  Sr  "  occupied  the  flowing  arch  above, 
with  "Tobacco"  in  the  other  corner.  When  you 
mounted  two  steps  and  opened  the  door,  a  bell  of  some 
kind  went "  ping  "  in  the  interior,  and  an  old  woman  in  a 
mutch,  with  big  specs  slipping  down  her  nose,  would 
come  up  a  step  from  a  dim  little  room  behind,  and  wiping 
her  sunken  mouth  with  her  apron — she  had  just  left 
her  tea — would  say,  "  What's  your  wuU  the  day,  sir?  " 
And  if  you  said  your  "  wull "  was  tobacco,  she  would 
answer,  "  Ou,  sir,  I  dinna  sell  ocht  now  but  the  tape 
and  sweeties."    And  then  you  went  away,  sadly. 

With  the  exception  of  the  dirty  man's  shop  and  the 
drunken  man's  shop,  that  kind  of  shop  was  the  Barbie 
kind  of  shop.  But  Wilson  changed  all  that.  One  side 
of  the  Emporium  was  crammed  with  pots,  pans,  pails, 
scythes,  gardening  implements,  and  saws,  with  a  big 
barrel  of  paraffin  partitioned  oil'  in  a  corner.  The  rafters 

[88] 


CHAPTER  TEN 

on  that  side  were  bristling  and  hoary  with  brushes  of 
all  kinds  dependent  from  the  roof,  so  that  the  minister's 
wife  (who  was  a  six-footer)  went  off  with  a  brush  in  her 
bonnet  once.  Behind  the  other  counter  were  canisters 
in  goodly  rows,  barrels  of  flour  and  bags  of  meal,  and 
great  yellow  cheeses  in  the  window.  The  rafters  here 
were  heavy  with  their  wealth  of  hams,  brown-skinned 
flitches  of  bacon  interspersed  with  the  white  tight- 
corded  home-cured — "  Barbie's  Best,"  as  Wilson  chris- 
tened it.  All  along  the  back,  in  glass  cases  to  keep  them 
unsullied,  were  bales  of  cloth,  layer  on  layer  to  the  roof. 
It  was  a  pleasure  to  go  into  the  place,  so  big  and  bien 
was  it,  and  to  smell  it  on  a  frosty  night  set  your  teeth 
watering.  There  was  always  a  big  barrel  of  American 
apples  just  inside  the  door,  and  their  homely  fragrance 
wooed  you  from  afar,  the  mellow  savour  cuddling  round 
you  half  a  mile  off.  Barbie  boys  had  despised  the  pro- 
vision trade,  heretofore,  as  a  mean  and  meagre  occupa- 
tion, but  now  the  imagination  of  each  gallant  youth  was 
fired  and  radiant;  he  meant  to  be  a  grocer. 

Mrs.  Wilson  presided  over  the  Emporium.  Wilson 
had  a  treasure  in  his  wife.  She  was  Aberdeen  born  and 
bred,  but  her  manner  was  the  manner  of  the  South  and 
West.  There  is  a  broad  difference  of  character  between 
the  peoples  of  East  and  West  Scotland.  The  East  throws 
a  narrower  and  a  nippier  breed.  In  the  West  they  take 
Burns  for  their  exemplar,  and  affect  the  jovial  and  ro- 
bustious— in  some  cases  it  is  affectation  only,  and  a 
mighty  poor  one  at  that.  They  claim  to  be  bigger  men 
and  bigger  fools  than  the  Eastern  billies.  xVnd  the 
Eastern  billies  are  very  willing  to  yield  one  half  of  the 
contention. 

[89] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GREEK  SHUTTERS 

Mrs.  Wilson,  though  Eastie  by  nature,  had  the  jovial 
manner  that  you  find  in  Kyle.  More  jovial,  indeed, 
than  was  common  in  nippy  Barbie,  which,  in  general 
character,  seems  to  liave  been  transplanted  from  some 
sand  dune  looking  out  upon  the  German  Ocean.  She 
was  big  of  hip  and  bosom,  with  sloe-black  hair  and  eyes, 
and  a  ruddy  cheek,  and  when  she  flung  back  her  head 
for  the  laugh  her  white  teeth  flashed  splendid  on  the 
world.  That  laugli  of  hers  became  one  of  the  well- 
known  features  of  Barbie.  "Lo'd-sake!"  a  startled 
visitor  would  cry,  "  whatna  skirl's  tha-at! "  "Oh, 
dinna  be  alarmed,"  a  native  would  comfort  him,  "  it's 
only  Wilson's  wife  lauchin  at  the  Cross!  " 

Her  manner  had  a  hearty  charm.  She  had  a  laugh 
and  a  joke  for  every  customer,  quick  as  a  wink  with  her 
answer;  her  jibe  was  in  you  and  out  again,  before  you 
knew  you  were  wounded.  Some,  it  is  true,  took  excep- 
tion to  the  loudness  of  her  skirl;  the  Deacon,  for  in- 
stance, who  "  gave  her  a  good  one  "  the  first  time  he 
went  in  for  snuff.  But  "  Tut!  "  quoth  she,  "  a  mim  cat's 
never  gude  at  the  mice,"  and  she  lifted  him  out  by  the 
scruff  of  his  neck,  crying,  "  Run,  mousie,  or  I'll  catch 
ye!  "  On  that  day  her  popularity  in  Barbie  was  assured 
for  evei-.  But  she  was  as  keen  on  tlie  penny  as  a  pe- 
nurious weaver,  for  all  her  heartiness  and  laughing 
ways.  She  combined  the  commercial  merits  of  the  East 
and  West.  She  could  coax  you  to  the  buying  like  a 
Cumnock  quean,  and  fleece  you  in  the  selling  like  the 
cadgers  o'  Kincardine.  When  Wilson  was  abroad  on  liis 
affairs  he  had  no  need  to  be  afraid  that  things  were  mis- 
managing at  liome.  During  his  first  year  in  Barbie 
Mrs.  Wilson  was  his  sole  helper.     Slie  had  the  brawny 

[90] 


CHAPTER  TEISr 

arm  of  a  giantess,  and  could  toss  a  bag  of  meal  like  a 
baby;  to  see  her  twirl  a  big  ham  on  the  counter  was  to 
see  a  thing  done  as  it  should  be.  When  Dru'cken  Wab- 
ster  came  in  and  was  offensive  once,  "  Poo-oor  fellow!  " 
said  she  (with  a  wink  to  a  customer)  "  I  declare  he's  in 
a  high  fever,"  and  she  took  him  kicking  to  the  pump 
and  cooled  him. 

With  a  mate  like  that  at  the  helm  every  sail  of  Wil- 
son's craft  was  trimmed  for  prosperity.  He  began  to 
"  look  about  "  him  to  increase  the  fleet. 


[91] 


XI 

That  the  Scot  is  largely  endowed  with  the  commer- 
cial imagination  his  foes  will  be  ready  to  acknowledge. 
Imagination  may  consecrate  the  world  to  a  man,  or  it 
may  merely  be  a  visualising  faculty  which  sees  that, 
as  already  perfect,  which  is  still  lying  in  the  raw 
material.  The  Scot  has  the  lower  faculty  in  full  de- 
gree; he  has  the  forecasting  leap  of  the  mind  which 
sees  what  to  make  of  things — more,  sees  them  made 
and  in  vivid  operation.  To  him  there  is  a  railway 
through  the  desert  where  no  railway  exists,  and  mills 
along  the  quiet  stream.  And  his  perfervidum  ingenium 
is  quick  to  attempt  the  realising  of  his  dreams.  That 
is  why  he  makes  the  best  of  colonists.  Gait  is  his  type 
— Gait,  dreaming  in  boyhood  of  the  fine  water  power  a 
fellow  could  bring  round  the  hill,  from  the  stream 
where  he  went  a-fishing  (they  have  done  it  since), 
dreaming  in  manhood  of  the  cities  yet  to  rise  amid 
Ontario's  woods  (they  are  there  to  witness  to  his  fore- 
sight). Indeed,  so  flushed  and  riotous  can  the  Scottish 
mind  become  over  a  commercial  prospect  that  it  some- 
times sends  native  caution  by  the  board,  and  a  man's 
really  fine  idea  becomes  an  empty  balloon,  to  carry  him 
off  to  the  limbo  of  vanities.  There  is  a  megalomaniac 
in  every  parish  of  Scotland.  Well,  not  so  much  as  that; 
they're  owre  canny  for  that  to  be  said  of  them.  But 
in  every  district,  almost,  vou  may  find  a  poor  creature 

[92] 


CHAPTER  ELEVEN 

who  for  thirty  years  has  cherished  a  great  scheme  by 
which  he  means  to  revohitionize  the  world's  commerce, 
and  amass  a  fortune  in  monstrous  degree.  He  is  gen- 
erally to  be  seen  shivering  at  the  Cross,  and  (if  you  are 
a  nippy  man)  you  shout  carelessly  in  going  by,  "  Good 
morning,  Tamson;  how's  the  scheme?  "  And  he  would 
be  very  willing  to  tell  you,  if  only  you  would  wait  to 
listen.  "  Man,"  he  will  cry  eagerly  behind  you,  "  if  I 
only  had  anither  wee  wheel  in  my  invention — she  would 
do,  the  besom!  I'll  sune  have  her  ready  noo."  Poor 
Tamson! 

But  these  are  the  exceptions.  Scotsmen,  more  than 
other  men  perhaps,  have  the  three  great  essentials  of 
commercial  success — imagination  to  conceive  schemes, 
common  sense  to  correct  them,  and  energy  to  push  them 
through.  Common  sense,  indeed,  so  far  from  being 
wanting,  is  in  most  cases  too  much  in  evidence,  perhaps, 
crippling  the  soaring  mind  and  robbing  the  idea  of  its 
early  radiance;  in  quieter  language,  she  makes  the  aver- 
age Scotsman  to  be  over-cautious.  His  combinations 
are  rarely  Napoleonic  until  he  becomes  an  American. 
In  his  native  dales  he  seldom  ventures  on  a  daring  pol- 
icy. And  yet  his  forecasting  mind  is  always  detecting 
"  possibeelities."  So  he  contents  himself  by  creeping 
cautiously  from  point  to  point,  ignoring  big  reckless 
schemes  and  using  the  safe  and  small,  till  he  arrives  at 
a  florid  opulence.  He  has  expressed  his  love  of  festina 
lente  in  business  in  a  score  of  proverbs — "  bit-by-bit's 
the  better  horse,  though  big-by-big's  the  baulder "; 
"  ca'  canny  or  ye'U  cowp ";  "  many  a  little  makes  a 
mickle ";  and  "  creep  before  ye  gang."  This  ming- 
ling of  caution  and  imagination  is  the  cause  of  his  stable 

[93] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GREEN  SHUTTERS 

prosperity.  And  its  characteristic  is  a  sure  progressive- 
ness.  That  sure  progressiveness  was  the  characteristic 
of  Wilson's  prosperity  in  Barbie.  In  him,  too,  imagina- 
tion and  caution  were  equally  developed.  He  was  al- 
ways foreseeing  "  chances  "  and  using  them,  gripping 
the  good  and  rejecting  the  dangerous  (had  he  not 
gripped  the  chance  of  auld  Rab  Jamieson's  barn? — there 
was  caution  in  that,  for  it  was  worth  the  money  what- 
ever happened,  and  there  was  imagination  in  the  whole 
scheme,  for  he  had  a  vision  of  Barbie  as  a  populous 
centre  and  streets  of  houses  in  his  holm).  And  every 
"chance"  he  seized  led  to  a  better  one,  till  almost 
every  "  chance  "  in  Barbie  was  engrossed  by  him  alone. 
This  is  how  he  went  to  work.  Note  the  "  bit-by-bit- 
ness''  of  his  great  career. 

When  Mrs.  Wilson  was  behind  the  counter,  Wilson 
was  out  "distributing."  He  was  not  always  out,  of 
course — his  volume  of  trade  at  first  was  not  big  enough 
for  that,  but  in  the  mornings,  and  the  long  summer 
dusks,  he  made  his  way  to  the  many  outlying  places  of 
which  Barbie  was  the  centre.  There,  in  one  and  the 
same  visit,  he  distributed  goods  and  collected  orders  for 
the  future.  Though  his  bill  had  spoken  of  "  carts," 
as  if  he  had  several,  that  was  only  a  bit  of  splurge  on 
his  part;  his  one  conveyance  at  the  first  was  a  stout 
spring  cart,  with  a  good  brown  cob  between  the  shafts. 
But  with  this  he  did  such  a  trade  as  had  never  been 
known  in  Barbie.  The  Provost  said  it  was  "  shtupen- 
dous." 

When  Wilson  was  jogging  homeward  in  the  balmy 
evenings  of  his  first  summer  at  Barbie  no  eye  had  he  for 
the  large  evening  star,  tremulous  above  the  woods,  or  for 

[94] 


CHAPTEK  ELEVEN 

the  dreaming  sprays  against  the  yellow  west.  It  wasn't 
his  business — he  had  other  things  to  mind.  Yet  Wil- 
son was  a  dreamer,  too.  His  close  musing  eye,  peering 
at  the  dusky-brown  nodge  of  his  pony's  hip  through 
the  gloom,  saw  not  that,  but  visions  of  chances,  oppor- 
tunities, occasions.  When  the  lights  of  Barbie  twinkled 
before  him  in  the  dusk  he  used  to  start  from  a  pleasant 
dream  of  some  commercial  enterprise  suggested  by  the 
country  round.  "  Yon  holm  would  make  a  fine  bleach- 
ing green — pure  water,  fine  air,  labour  cheap,  and  every- 
thing handy.  Or  the  Lintie's  Linn  among  the  woodsy- 
water  power  running  to  waste  yonder — surely  some- 
thing could  be  made  of  that."  He  would  follow  his  idea 
through  all  its  mazes  and  developments,  oblivious  of 
the  passing  miles.  His  delight  in  his  visions  was  ex- 
actly the  same  as  the  author's  delight  in  the  figments  of 
his  brain.  They  were  the  same  good  company  along  the 
twilight  roads.  The  author,  happy  with  his  thronging 
thoughts  (when  they  are  kind  enough  to  throng)  is  no 
happier  than  Wilson  was  on  nights  like  these. 

He  had  not  been  a  week  on  his  rounds  when  he  saw 
a  "  chance  "  waiting  for  development.  When  out  "  de- 
livering "  he  used  to  visit  the  upland  farms  to  buy 
butter  and  eggs  for  the  Emporium.  He  got  them 
cheaper  so.  But  more  eggs  and  butter  could  be 
had  than  were  required  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Barbie. 
Here  was  a  chance  for  Wilson!  He  became  a  collector 
for  merchants  at  a  distance.  Barbie,  before  it  got  the 
railway,  had  only  a  silly  little  market  once  a  fortnight, 
which  was  a  very  poor  outlet  for  stuff.  Wilson 
provided  a  better  one.  Another  thing  played  into 
his  hands,  too,  in  that  connection.     It  is  a  cheese-mak- 

[05] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GREEN  SHUTTERS 

ing  countryside  about  Barbie,  and  the  less  butter  pro- 
duced at  a  cheese-making  place — the  better  for  the 
cheese.  Still,  a  good  many  pounds  are  often  churned 
on  the  sly.  What  need  the  cheese  merchant  ken — it 
keepit  the  gudewife  in  bawbees  frae  week  to  week — and 
if  she  took  a  little  cream  frae  the  cheese  now  and  than 
they  werena  a  pin  the  waur  o't,  for  she  aye  did  it  wi^  de- 
cency and  caution!  Still  it  is  as  well  to  dispose  of  this 
kind  of  butter  quietly,  to  avoid  gabble  among  ill-speak- 
ers. Wilson,  slithering  up  the  back  road  with  his 
spring  cart  in  the  gloaming,  was  the  man  to  dispose  of  it 
quietly.  And  he  got  it  dirt  cheap,  of  course,  seeing  it 
was  a  kind  of  contraband.  All  that  he  made  in  this 
way  was  not  much  to  be  sure — threepence  a  dozen  on 
the  eggs,  perhaps,  and  fourpence  on  the  pound  of  butter 
— still,  you  know,  every  little  makes  a  mickle,  and 
hained  gear  helps  weel.*  x\nd  more  important  than  the 
immediate  profit  was  the  ultimate  result.  For  Wilson, 
in  this  way,  established  with  merchants,  in  far-off  Fech- 
ars  and  Poltandie,  a  connection  for  the  sale  of  country 
produce  which  meant  a  great  deal  to  him  in  future, 
when  he  launched  out  as  cheese-buyer  in  opposition  to 
Gourlay. 

It  "  occurred  "  to  him  also  (things  were  always  occur- 
ring to  Wilson)  that  the  "  Scotch  Cuddy  "  business  had 
as  fine  a  chance  in  "  Barbie  and  surrounding  neigh- 
bourhood "  as  ever  it  had  in  North  and  Middle  England. 
The  "  Scotch  Cuddy"  is  so  called  because  he  is  a  beast 
of  burden,  and  not  from  the  nature  of  his  wits.  He  is 
a  travelling  packman,  wlio  infests  communities  of  work- 
ing men,  and  disposes  of  his  goods  on  the  credit  system, 
*  Hained  gear:  saved  money. 
[96] 


CHAPTER  ELEVEN 

receiving  payment  in  instalments.  You  go  into  a  work- 
ing man's  house  (when  he  is  away  from  home  for  prefer- 
ence) and,  laying  a  swatch  of  cloth  across  his  wife's 
knee,  "  What  do  you  think  of  that,  mistress?  "  you  en- 
quire, watching  the  effect  keenly.  Instantly  all  her 
covetous  heart  is  in  her  eye  and,  thinks  she  to  herself, 
"  Oh,  but  John  would  look  well  in  that,  at  the  Kirk  on 
Sunday!  "  She  has  no  ready  money,  and  would  never 
have  the  cheek  to  go  into  a  draper's  and  order  the  suit, 
but  when  she  sees  it  lying  there  across  her  knee,  she  just 
cannot  resist  it.  (And  fine  you  knew  that  when  you 
clinked  it  down  before  her!)  Now  that  the  goods  are 
in  the  house  she  cannot  bear  to  let  them  out  the  door 
again.  But  she  hints  a  scarcity  of  cash.  "  Tut,  wo- 
man! "  quoth  you,  bounteous  and  kind,  "•  there's  no  ob- 
stacle in  that! — You  can  pay  me  in  instalments!" 
How  much  would  the  instalments  be,  she  enquires. 
"  Oh,  a  mere  trifle — half-a-crown  a  week,  say."  She 
hesitates  and  hankers.  "  John's  Sunday  coat's  getting 
quite  shabby,  so  it  is,  and  Tam  Macalister  has  a  new 
suit,  she  was  noticing — the  Macalisters  are  always 
flaunting  in  their  braws!  And,  there's  that  Paisley 
shawl  for  herself,  too;  eh,  but  they  would  be  the  canty 
pair,  cocking  down  the  road  on  Sunday  in  that  rig! — 
they  would  take  the  licht  frae  Meg  IMacalister's  e'en, 
thae  Macalisters  are  always  so  en-vy-fu'! "  Love, 
vanity,  covetousness,  present  opportunity,  are  all  at 
work  upon  the  poor  body.  She  succumbs.  But  the 
half-crown  weekly  payments  have  a  habit  of  lengthen- 
ing themselves  out  till  the  packman  has  made  fifty  per 
cent  by  the  business.  And  why  not? — a  man  must 
have  some  interest  on  his  money!     Then  there's  the 

[97] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GREEN  SHUTTERS 

risk  of  bad  debts,  too — that  falls  to  be  considered.  But 
there  was  little  risk  of  bad  debts  when  Wilson  took  to 
cloth-distributing.  For  success  in  that  game  depends  on 
pertinacity  in  pursuit  of  your  victim  and  Wilson  was  the 
man  for  that. 

He  was  jogging  home  from  Brigabee,  where  he  had 
been  distributing  groceries  at  a  score  of  wee  houses, 
when  there  flashed  on  his  mind  a  whole  scheme  for 
cloth-distribution  on  a  large  scale — for  mining  villages 
were  clustering  in  about  Barbie  by  this  time,  and  he 
saw  his  way  to  a  big  thing. 

He  was  thinking  of  Sandy  Toddle,  who  had  been  a 
Scotch  Cuddy  in  the  Midlands  and  had  retired  to  Bar- 
bie on  a  snug  bit  fortune — he  was  thinking  of  Sandy 
when  the  plan  rose  generous  on  his  mind.  He  would 
soon  have  more  horses  than  one  on  the  road — why 
shouldn't  they  carry  swatches  of  cloth  as  well  as  gro- 
ceries? If  he  had  responsible  men  under  him,  it  would 
be  their  own  interest,  for  a  small  commission  on  the 
profits,  to  see  that  payments  were  levied  correctly  every 
week.  And  those  colliers  were  reckless  with  their  cash, 
far  readier  to  commit  themselves  to  buying  than  the 
cannier  country  bodies  round.  Lord!  there  was  money 
in  the  scheme.  No  sooner  thought  of  than  put  in  prac- 
tice. Wilson  gave  up  the  cloth-peddling  after  five  or 
six  years — he  had  other  fish  to  fry  by  that  time — ^but 
while  he  was  at  it  he  made  money  hand  over  fist  at 
the  job. 

But  what  boots  it  to  tell  of  all  his  schemes?  He  had 
the  lucky  eye — and  everything  he  looked  on  prospered. 

Before  he  had  been  a  week  in  Barbie  he  met  Gourlay, 
just  at  the  Bend  o'  the  Brae,  in  full  presence  of  the  bod- 

[98] 


CHAPTER  ELEVEN 

ies.  Remembering  their  first  encounter  the  grocer  tried 
to  outstare  him,  but  Gourlay  hardened  his  glower  and 
the  grocer  blinked.  When  the  two  passed,  "  I  declare!  " 
said  the  bodies,  "  did  ye  see  yon? — they're  not  on  speak- 
ing terms!  "  And  they  botched  with  glee  to  think  that 
Gourlay  had  another  enemy. 

Judge  of  their  delight  when  they  saw  one  day  about 
a  month  later,  just  as  Gourlay  was  passing  up  the  street, 
Wilson  come  down  it  with  a  load  of  coals  for  a  customer! 
For  he  was  often  out  Auchterwheeze  road  in  the  early 
morning,  and  what  was  the  use  of  an  empty  journey  back 
again,  especially  as  he  had  plenty  of  time  in  the  middle 
of  the  day  to  attend  to  other  folk's  affairs — so  here  he 
was,  started  as  a  carrier,  in  full  opposition  to  Gourlay. 

"  Did  you  see  Gourlay's  face  ?  "  chuckled  the  bodies 
when  the  cart  went  by.  "  Yon  v/as  a  bash  in  the  eye  to 
him.  Ha,  ha! — he's  not  to  have  it  all  his  own  way 
now!  " 

Wilson  had  slid  into  the  carrying  in  the  natural  de- 
velopment of  business.  It  was  another  of  the  possibili- 
ties which  he  saw  and  turned  to  his  advantage.  The 
two  other  chief  grocers  in  the  place,  Cunningham  the 
dirty,  and  Calderwood  the  drunken,  having  no  carts  or 
horses  of  their  own,  were  dependent  on  Gourlay  for  con- 
veyance of  their  goods  from  Skeighan.  But  Wilson 
brought  his  own.  Naturally,  he  was  asked  by  his  cus- 
tomers to  bring  a  parcel  now  and  then,  and  naturally, 
being  the  man  he  was,  he  made  them  pay  for  the  privi- 
lege. With  that  for  a  start  the  rest  was  soon  accom- 
plished. Gourlay  had  to  pay  now  for  his  years  of  inso- 
lence and  tyranny;  all  who  had  irked  beneath  his  dom- 
ineering ways  got  their  carrying  done  by  Wilson.     Ere 

[  09  ] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GREEN  SHUTTEES 

loug  that  prosperous  gentleman  had  three  carts  on  the 
road,  and  two  men  under  him  to  help  in  his  various 
affairs. 

Carting  was  only  one  of  several  new  developments  in 
the  business  of  J.  W.  When  the  navvies  came  in  about 
the  town  and  accommodation  was  ill  to  find,  Wilson 
rigged  up  an  old  shed  in  the  corner  of  his  holm  as  a  hos- 
telry for  ten  of  them — and  they  had  to  pay  through  the 
nose  for  their  night's  lodging.  Their  food  they  ob- 
tained from  the  Emporium^  and  thus  the  Wilsons  bled 
them  both  ways.  Then  there  was  the  scheme  for  sup- 
plying milk — another  of  the  "  possibeelities."  Hither- 
to in  winter.  Barbie  was  dependent  for  its  milk  supply 
on  heavy  farm-carts  that  came  lumbering  down  the 
street,  about  half-past  seven  in  the  morning,  jangling 
bells  to  waken  sleepy  customers,  and  carrying  lanterns 
that  carved  circles  of  hairy  yellow  out  the  raw  air. 
But  Mrs.  Wilson  got  four  cows,  back-calvers  who  would 
be  milking  strong  in  December,  and  supplied  milk  to 
all  the  folk  about  the  Cross. 

She  had  a  lass  to  help  her  in  the  house  now,  and  the 
red-lieaded  boy  was  always  to  be  seen,  jinking  round 
corners  like  a  weasel,  running  messages  hot-foot,  er- 
rand boy  to  the  "  bisness  "  in  general.  Yet,  though 
everybody  was  busy  and  skelping  at  it,  such  a  stress 
of  work  was  accompanied  with  much  disarray.  Wil- 
son's yard  was  the  strangest  contrast  to  Gourlay's. 
Gourlay's  was  a  pleasure  to  the  eye,  everything  of  the 
best  and  everything  in  order,  since  the  master's  pride 
would  not  allow  it  to  be  other.  But,  though  Wilson's 
Emporium  was  clean,  his  back  yard  was  littered  with 
dirty  straw,  broken  boxes,  old  barrels,  stable  refuse,  and 

[100] 


CHAPTEE  ELEVEN 

the  sky-pointing  shafts  of  carts,  uptilted  in  between. 
When  boxes  and  barrels  were  flung  out  of  the  Em- 
porium they  were  generally  allowed  to  lie  on  the  dung- 
hill, until  they  were  converted  into  firewood.  "  Mis- 
tress, you're  a  trifle  mixed,"  said  the  Provost  in  grave 
reproof,  when  he  went  round  to  the  back  to  see  Wil- 
son on  a  matter  of  business.  But  "  Tut,"  cried  IMrs. 
Wilson,  as  she  threw  down  a  plank,  to  make  a  path 
for  him  across  a  dub — "  Tut,"  she  laughed,  "  the 
clartier  the  cosier!  "  And  it  was  as  true  as  she  said  it. 
The  thing  went  forward  splendidly  in  spite  of  its  con- 
fusion. 

Though  trade  was  brisker  in  Barbie  than  it  had  ever 
been  before,  Wilson  had  already  done  injury  to  Gour- 
lay's  business  as  general  conveyer.  But,  hitherto,  he 
had  not  infringed  on  the  gurly  one's  other  monopolies. 
His  chance  came  at  last. 

He  appeared  on  a  market  day  in  front  of  the  Red 
Lion,  a  piece  of  pinkey-brown  paper  in  his  hand.  Tliat 
was  the  first  telegram  ever  seen  in  Barbie,  and  it  had 
been  brought  by  special  messenger  from  Skeighan.  It 
was  short  and  to  the  point.  It  ran:  "Will  buy  300 
stone  cheese  8  shillings  stone*  delivery  at  once,"  and 
was  signed  by  a  merchant  in  Poltandie. 

Gourlay  was  talking  to  old  Tarmillan  of  Irrendavie, 
when  Wilson  pushed  in  and  addressed  Tarmillan,  with- 
out a  glance  at  the  grain-merchant. 

"Have  you  a  kane  o'  cheese  to  sell,  Irrendavie?" 
was  his  blithe  salutation. 

*  That  is  for  the  stone  of  fourteen  pounds.  At  that  time 
Scotch  cheese  was  selling,  roiirjhly,  at  from  fifty  to  sixty  shillings 
the  hundredweight. 

[101] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GREEN  SHUTTERS 

"  I  have,"  said  Irrendavie,  and  he  eyed  him  suspi- 
ciously. For  what  was  Wilson  spiering  for?  He  wasna 
a  cheese-merchant. 

"  How  much  the  stane  are  ye  seeking  for't?  "  said 
Wilson, 

"  I  have  just  been  asking  Mr.  Gourlay  here  for  seven 
and  six,"  said  Irrendavie,  "  but  he  winna  rise  a  penny 
on  the  seven!  " 

"  r\\  gi'e  ye  seven  and  six,"  said  Wilson,  and  slapped 
his  long  thin  flexible  bank-book  far  too  ostentatiously 
against  the  knuckles  of  his  left  hand. 

"  But — but,"  stammered  Irrendavie,  suspicious  still, 
but  melting  at  the  offer,  "  you  have  no  means  of  storing 
cheese." 

"  Oh,"  said  Wilson,  getting  in  a  fine  one  at  Gourlay, 
"there's  no  drawback  in  that!  The  ways  o'  business 
have  changed  greatly  since  steam  came  close  to  our 
doors.  It's  nothing  but  vanity  nowadays  when  a  coun- 
try merchant  wastes  money  on  a  ramshackle  of  build- 
ings for  storing — there's  no  need  for  that  if  he  only 
had  brains  to  develop  quick  deliveries.  Some  folk, 
no  doubt,  like  to  build  monuments  to  their  own  pride, 
but  I'm  not  one  of  that  kind;  there's  not  enough  sense 
in  that  to  satisfy  a  man  like  me.  My  offer  doesna  hold, 
you  understand,  unless  you  deliver  the  cheese  at  Skei- 
ghan  Station.     Do  you  accept  the  condition?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  Irrendavie,  "  I'm  willing  to  agree 
to  that." 

"  C'way  into  the  TJed  Lion  then,"  said  Wilson,  "  and 
we'll  wet  the  bargain  with  a  drink  to  make  it  hold  the 
tighter! " 

Then  a  strange  thing  happened.     Gourlay  had  a  cu- 

[  i02  ] 


CHAPTER  ELEVEN 

rious  stick  of  foreign  wood  (one  of  the  trifles  he  fed  his 
pride  on)  the  crook  of  which  curved  back  to  the  stem 
and  inhered,  leaving  space  only  for  the  fingers.  The 
wood  was  of  wonderful  toughness,  and  Gourlay  had  been 
known  to  bet  that  no  man  could  break  the  handle  of  his 
stick  by  a  single  grip  over  the  crook  and  under  it.  Yet 
now,  as  he  saw  his  bargain  whisked  away  from  him  and 
listened  to  Wilson's  jibe,  the  thing  snapped  in  his  grip 
like  a  rotten  twig.  He  stared  down  at  the  broken  pieces 
for  a  while,  as  if  wondering  how  they  came  there,  then 
dashed  them  on  the  ground  while  Wilson  stood  smiling 
by.  And  then  he  strode — with  a  look  on  his  face  that 
made  the  folk  fall  away. 

"  He's  hellish  angry,"  they  grinned  to  each  other 
when  their  foe  was  gone,  and  laughed  when  they  heard 
the  cause  of  it.  "  Ha,  ha,  Wilson's  the  boy  to  diddle 
him! "  And  yet  they  looked  queer  M'hen  told  that  the 
famous  stick  had  snapped  in  his  grasp  like  a  worm- 
eaten  larch-twig.  "Lord!  "  cried  the  baker  in  admir- 
ing awe,  "  did  he  break  it  with  the  ae  chirt!  It's  been 
tried  by  scores  of  fellows  ior  the  last  twenty  years,  and 
never  a  man  of  them  was  up  till't!  Lads,  there's  some- 
thing splendid  about  Gourlay's  wrath.  What  a  man  he 
is  when  the  paw-sion  grups  him!  " 

"  Tliplendid,  d'ye  ca't?  "  said  the  Deacon.  "  He  may 
thwing  in  a  towe  for  his  tliplendid  wrath  yet." 

From  that  day  Wilson  and  Gourlay  were  a  pair  of 
gladiators  for  wliom  the  people  of  Barbie  made  a  ring. 
They  pitted  tlie  protagonists  against  each  other  and 
hounded  them  on  to  rivalry  by  their  comments  and 
remarks,  taking  the  side  of  the  newcomer,  less  from 
partiality  to  him  than  from  hatred  of  their  ancient 

[103] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GREEN  SHUTTERS 

enemy.  It  was  strange  that  a  thing  so  impalpable  as 
gossip  should  influence  so  strong  a  man  as  John  Gourlay 
to  his  ruin.  But  it  did.  The  bodies  of  Barbie  became 
not  only  the  chorus  to  Gourlay's  tragedy,  buzzing  it 
abroad  and  discussing  his  downfall;  they  became  also, 
merely  by  their  maddening  tattle,  a  villain  of  the  piece 
and  an  active  cause  of  the  catastrophe.  Their  gossip 
seemed  to  materialize  into  a  single  entity,  a  something 
propelling,  that  spurred  Gourlay  on  to  the  schemes  that 
ruined  him.  He  was  not  to  be  done,  he  said;  he  would 
show  the  dogs  what  he  thought  of  them.  And  so  he 
plunged  headlong,  while  the  wary  Wilson  watched  him, 
smiling  at  the  sight. 

There  was  a  pretty  hell-broth  brewing  in  the  little 
town. 


[104] 


XII 

"Aye  man,  Templandmuir,  it's  you! "  said  Gourlay, 
coining  forward  with  great  heartiness,  "Aye  man,  and 
how  are  ye?     C'way  into  the  parlour!  " 

"Good  evening,  Mr.  Gourlay,"  said  the  Templar. 
His  manner  was  curiously  subdued. 

Since  his  marriage  there  was  a  great  change  in  the 
rubicund  squireen.  Hitherto  he  had  lived  in  sluttish 
comfort  on  his  own  land,  content  with  the  little  it 
brought  in,  and  proud  to  be  the  friend  of  Gourlay  whom 
everybody  feared.  If  it  ever  dawned  on  his  befuddled 
mind  that  Gourlay  turned  the  friendship  to  his  own  ac- 
count, his  vanity  was  flattered  by  the  prestige  he  ac- 
quired because  of  it.  Like  many  another  robustious 
big  toper,  the  Templar  was  a  chicken  at  heart,  and  "  to 
be  in  with  Gourlay  "  lent  him  a  consequence  that  cov- 
ered his  deficiency.  "  Yes,  I'm  sleepy,"  he  would  yawn 
in  Skeighan  Mart,  "  I  had  a  sederunt  yestreen  wi'  John 
Gourlay,"  and  he  would  slap  his  boot  with  his  riding- 
switch,  and  feel  like  a  hero.  "  I  know  how  it  is,  I  know 
how  it  is!  "  Provost  Connal  of  Barbie  used  to  cry; 
"  Gourlay  both  courts  and  cowes  him — first  he  courts 
and  then  he  cowes — and  the  Templar  hasn't  the  cour- 
age to  break  it  off! "     The  Provost  hit  the  mark. 

But  when  the  Templar  married  the  miller's  daughter 
of  the  Mill  o'  Blink  (a  sad  come-down,  said  foolish 
neighbours,  for  a  Halliday  of  Templandmuir)  there  was 

[105] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GKEEN  SHUTTEES 

a  sudden  change  about  the  laird.  In  our  good  Scots 
proverb,  "A  miller's  daughter  has  a  shrill  voice  "  and 
the  new  leddy  of  Templandmuir  ("  a  leddy  she  is! " 
said  the  frightened  housekeeper)  justified  the  proverb. 
Her  voice  went  with  the  skirl  of  an  East  wind  through 
the  rat-riddled  mansion  of  the  Hallidays.  She  was  nine- 
and-twenty,  and  a  birkie  woman  of  nine-and-twenty  can 
make  a  good  husband  out  of  very  unpromising  material. 
The  Templar  wore  a  scared  look  in  those  days  and  went 
home  betimes.  His  cronies  knew  the  fun  was  over  when 
they  heard  what  happened  to  the  great  punch-bowl — 
she  made  it  a  swine-trough.  It  was  the  heirloom  of  a 
hundred  years,  and  as  much  as  a  man  could  carry  with 
his  arms  out,  a  massive  curio  in  stone;  but  to  her  hus- 
band's plaint  about  its  degradation,  "  Oh,"  she  cried, 
"  it'll  never  know  the  difference!  It's  been  used  to 
swine!  " 

But  she  was  not  content  with  the  cessation  of  the 
old,  she  was  determined  on  bringing  in  the  new.  For 
a  twelvemonth  now  she  had  urged  her  husband  to  be 
rid  of  Gourlay.  The  country  was  opening  up,  she  said, 
and  the  quarry  ought  to  be  their  own.  A  dozen  times 
he  had  promised  her  to  warn  Gourlay  that  he  must  yield 
the  quarry  when  his  tack  ran  out  at  the  end  of  the  year, 
and  a  dozen  times  he  had  shrunk  from  the  encounter. 

"  I'll  write,"  he  said  feebly. 

"  Write!  "  said  she,  lowered  in  her  pride  to  think  her 
husband  was  a  coward.  "Write,  indeed!  Man,  have 
ye  no  spunk?  Think  what  he  has  made  out  o'  ye! 
Think  o'  the  money  that  has  gone  to  him  that  should 
have  come  to  you!  You  should  be  glad  o'  the  chance 
to  tell  him  o't.     My  certy,  if  I  was  you  I  wouldn't  miss 


CHAPTER  TWELVE 

it  for  the  world — just  to  let  him  know  of  his  cheatry! 
Oh,  it's  very  right  that  /  " — she  sounded  the  I  big  and 
brave — "  it's  very  right  that  /  should  live  in  this  tum- 
bledown hole  while  he  builds  a  palace  from  your  plun- 
der! It's  right  that  /  should  put  up  with  this  " — she 
flung  hands  of  contempt  at  her  dwelling — "  it's  right 
that  /  should  put  up  with  this,  while  yon  trollop  has  a 
splendid  mansion  on  the  top  o'  the  brae!  And  every 
bawbee  of  his  fortune  has  come  out  of  you — the  fool 
makes  nothing  from  his  other  business — he  would  have 
been  a  pauper  if  he  hadn't  met  a  softie  like  you  that  he 
could  do  what  he  liked  with.  Write,  indeed!  I  have 
no  patience  with  a  wheen  sumphs  of  men!  Them  do  the 
work  o'  the  world!  They  may  wear  the  breeks,  but  the 
women  wear  the  brains,  I  trow.  I'll  have  it  out  with 
the  black  brute  myself,"  screamed  the  hardy  dame,  "  if 
you're  feared  of  his  glower.  If  you  havena  the  pluck 
for  it,  I  have.  Write,  indeed!  In  you  go  to  the  meet- 
ing that  oald  ass  of  a  Provost  has  convened,  and  don't 
show  your  face  in  Templandmuir  till  you  have  had  it 
out  with  Gourlay!  " 
No  wonder  the  Templar  looked  subdued. 
When  Gourlay  cam^e  forward  with  his  usual  calculated 
heartiness,  the  laird  remembered  his  wife  and  felt 
very  uncomfortable.  It  was  ill  to  round  on  a  man 
who  always  imposed  on  him  a  hearty  and  hardy  good- 
fellowship.  Gourlay,  greeting  him  so  warmly,  gave 
him  no  excuse  for  an  outburst.  In  his  dilemma  he 
turned  to  the  children,  to  postpone  the  evil  hour. 

"Aye,  man,  John!  "  he  said,  heavily,  "  you're  there!  " 
Heavy  Scotsmen  are  fond  of  telling  folk  that  they  are 
where  they  are.    "  You're  there!  "  said  Templandmuir, 

[107] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GREEN  SHUTTERS 

"Aye,"  said  John,  the  simpleton,  "  I'm  here." 

In  the  grime  of  the  boy's  face  there  were  large  white 
circles  round  the  eyes,  showing  where  his  fists  had 
rubbed  off  the  tears  through  the  day. 

"  How  are  you  doing  at  the  school?  "  said  the  Tem- 
plar, 

"  Oh,  he's  an  ass! "  said  Gourlay.  "  He  takes  after 
his  mother  in  that!  The  lassie's  more  smart — she  fa- 
vours our  side  o'  the  house!  Eh,  Jenny?  "  he  enquired, 
and  tugged  her  pigtail,  smiling  down  at  her  in  grim 
fondness. 

"Yes,"  nodded  Janet,  encouraged  by  the  petting, 
"  John's  always  at  the  bottom  of  the  class.  Jimmy 
Wilson's  always  at  the  top,  and  the  dominie  set  him  to 
teach  John  his  'counts  the  day — after  he  had  thrashed 
him! " 

She  cried  out,  at  a  sudden  tug  on  her  pigtail,  and 
looked  up,  with  tears  in  her  eyes,  to  meet  her  father's 
scowl. 

"  You  eediot!  "  said  Gourlay,  gazing  at  his  son  with  a 
savage  contempt,  "  have  you  no  pride  to  let  Wilson's 
son  be  your  master?  " 

John  slunk  from  the  room. 

"  Bide  where  you  are,  Templandmuir,"  said  Gourlay, 
after  a  little,  "  I'll  be  back  directly." 

He  went  through  to  the  kitchen  and  took  a  crystal 
jug  from  the  dresser.  He  "  made  a  point  "  of  bring- 
ing the  water  for  his  whiskey.  "  I  like  to  pump  it  up 
cold,"  he  used  to  say,  "  cold  and  cold,  ye  know,  till 
there's  a  mist  on  the  outside  of  the  glass  like  the  bloom 
on  a  plum,  and  then,  by  CJoad,  ye  have  the  fine  drinking! 
Oh,  no — ye  needn't  tell  me,  I  wouldn't  lip  drink  if  the 

[  108  ] 


CHAPTER  TWELVE 

water  wasna  ice-cold."  He  never  varied  from  the  tipple 
he  approved.  In  his  long  sederunts  with  Templand- 
muir  he  would  slip  out  to  the  pump,  before  every  brew, 
to  get  water  of  sufficient  coldness. 

To-night  he  would  birl  the  bottle  with  Templandmuir 
as  usual,  till  the  fuddled  laird  should  think  himself  a 
fine  big  fellow  as  being  the  intimate  of  John  Gourlay — 
and  then,  sober  as  a  judge  himself,  he  would  drive  him 
home  in  the  small  hours.  And  when  next  they  met,  the 
pot-valiant  squireen  would  chuckle  proudly,  "  Faith, 
yon  was  a  night."  By  a  crude  cunning  of  the  kind 
Gourlay  had  maintained  his  ascendancy  for  years,  and 
to-night  he  would  maintain  it  still.  He  went  out  to  the 
pump,  to  fetch  water  with  his  own  hands,  for  their  first 
libation. 

But  when  he  came  back  and  set  out  the  big  decanter 
Templandmuir  started  to  his  feet. 

"  N"oat  to-night,  Mr.  Gourlay,"  he  stammered — and 
his  unusual  flutter  of  refusal  might  have  warned  Gour- 
lay— "  noat  to-night,  if  you  please,  noat  to-night,  if  you 
please.  As  a  matter  of  fact — eh — what  I  really  came 
into  the  town  for,  doan't  you  see,  was — eh — to  attend 
the  meeting  the  Provost  has  convened  about  the  rail- 
way.    You'll  come  down  to  the  meeting,  will  ye  noat?  " 

He  wanted  to  get  Gourlay  away  from  the  House  witli 
the  Green  Shutters.  It  would  be  easier  to  quarrel  with 
him  out  of  doors. 

But  Gourlay  gaped  at  him  across  the  table,  his  eyes 
big  with  surprise  and  disapproval. 

"Huh!  "  he  growled,  "I  wonder  at  a  man  like  you 
giving  your  head  to  that!     It's  a  wheen  damned  non- 


sense." 


[109] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GREEN  SHUTTERS 

"  Oh,  I'm  no  so  sure  of  that/'  drawled  the  Templar. 
"  I  think  the  railway  means  to  come." 

The  whole  country  was  agog  about  the  new  railway. 
The  question  agitating  solemn  minds  was  whether  it 
should  join  the  main  line  at  Fechars,  thirty  miles  ahead, 
or  pass  to  the  right,  through  Fleckie  and  Barbie,  to  a 
junction  up  at  Skeighan  Drone.  Many  were  the  rea- 
sons spluttered  in  vehement  debate  for  one  route  or  the 
other.  "  On  the  one  side,  ye  see,  Skeighan  was  a  big 
place  a'readys,  and  look  what  a  centre  it  would  be,  if  it 
had  three  lines  of  rail  running  out  and  in!  Eh,  my, 
what  a  centre!  Then  there  was  Fleckie  and  Barbie — 
they  would  be  the  big  towns!  Up  the  valley,  too,  was 
the  shortest  road;  it  would  be  a  daft-like  thing  to  build 
thirty  mile  of  rail,  when  fifteen  was  enough  to  establish 
the  connection!  And  was  it  likely — I  put  it  to  ainy 
man  of  sense — was  it  likely  the  Coal  Company  wouldn't 
do  everything  in  their  power  to  get  the  railway  up  the 
valley,  seeing  that  if  it  didn't  come  that  airt,  they  would 
need  to  build  a  line  of  their  own?  " — "  Ah,  but  then,  ye 
see,  Fechars  was  a  big  place,  too,  and  there  was  lots  of 
mineral  up  there  as  well!  And  though  it  was  a  longer 
road  to  Fechars  and  part  of  it  lay  across  the  moors,  there 
were  several  wee  towns  that  airt  just  waiting  for  a 
chance  of  growth!  I  can  tell  ye,  sirs,  this  was  going 
to  be  a  close  question!  " 

Such  was  the  talk  in  pot-house  and  parlour,  at  kirk 
and  mart  and  tryst  and  fair,  and  wherever  potentates 
did  gather  and  abound.  The  partisans  on  either  side 
began  to  canvass  the  country  in  support  of  their  con- 
tentions. They  might  have  kept  their  breath  to  cool 
their  porridge,  for  these  matters,  we  know,  are  settled 

[  110  ] 


CHAPTER  TWELVE 

in  the  great  Witenagemot.  But  petitions  were  prepared 
and  meetings  Avere  convened.  In  those  days  Provost 
Connal  of  Barbie  was  in  constant  conununion  with  the 
"  Pow-ers."  "  Yass,"  he  nodded  gravely — only  "  nod  " 
is  a  word  too  swift  for  the  grave  inclining  of  that  mighty 
pow — "  Yass,  ye  know,  the  great  thing  in  matters 
like  this  is  to  get  at  the  Pow-ers,  doan't  you  see? 
Oh,  yass,  yass;  we  must  get  at  the  Pow-ers!  " — and  he 
looked  as  if  none  but  he  were  equal  to  the  job.  He  even 
went  to  London  (to  interrogate  the  "  Pow-ers  "),  and 
simple  bodies,  gathered  at  the  Cross  for  their  Saturday  at 
e'en,  told  each  other  with  bated  breath  that  the  Provost 
was  away  to  the  "  seat  of  Goaver'ment  to  see  about  the 
railway."  When  he  came  back  and  shook  his  head, 
hope  drained  from  his  fellows  and  left  them  hollow  in 
an  empty  world.  But  when  he  smacked  his  lips  on 
receiving  an  important  letter,  the  heavens  were  bright- 
ened and  the  landscapes  smiled. 

The  Provost  walked  about  the  town  nowadays  with 
the  air  of  a  man  on  whose  shoulders  the  weight  of  em- 
pires did  depend.  But  for  all  his  airs  it  was  not  the 
Head  o'  the  Town  who  was  the  ablest  advocate  of  the 
route  up  the  Water  of  Barbie.  It  was  that  public-spir- 
ited citizen,  Mr.  James  Wilson  of  the  Cross!  AYilson 
championed  the  cause  of  Barbie  with  an  ardour  that  did 
infinite  credit  to  his  civic  heart.  For  one  thing,  it  was 
a  grand  way  of  recommending  himself  to  his  new 
townsfolk,  as  he  told  his  wife,  "  and  so  increasing  the 
circle  of  our  present  trade,  don't  ye  understand  ?  " — ^f or 
another,  he  was  as  keen  as  the  keenest  that  the  railway 
should  come  and  enhance  the  value  of  his  property. 
"  We  must  agitate,"  he  cried,  when  Sandy  Toddle  mur- 

[111] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GREEN  SHUTTEES 

mured  a  doubt  whether  anything  they  could  do  would 
be  of  much  avail.  "  It's  not  settled  yet  what  road  the 
line's  to  follow,  and  who  knows  but  a  trifle  may  turn 
the  scale  in  our  behalf?  Local  opinion  ought  to  be  ex- 
pressed! They're  sending  a  monster  petition  from  the 
Fechars  side;  we'll  send  the  Company  a  bigger  one  from 
ours!  Look  at  Skeighan  and  Fleckie  and  Barbie — three 
towns  at  our  back,  and  the  new  Coal  Company,  forbye! 
A  public  opinion  of  that  size  ought  to  have  a  great 
weight — if  put  forward  properly!  We  must  agitate, 
sirs,  we  must  agitate — we  maun  scour  the  country  for 
names  in  our  support.  Look  what  a  number  of  things 
there  are,  to  recommend  our  route.  It's  the  shortest, 
and  there's  no  need  for  heavy  cuttings  such  as  are 
needed  on  the  other  side;  the  road's  there  a'ready — Bar- 
bie Water  has  cut  it  through  the  hills.  It's  the  mani- 
fest design  of  Providence  that  there  should  be  a  line  up 
Barbie  Valley!  What  a  position  for't! — And,  oh," 
thought  Wilson,  "  what  a  site  for  building  houses  in  my 
holm! — Let  a  meeting  be  convened  at  wunst!  " 

The  meeting  was  convened  with  Provost  Connal  in  the 
chair,  and  Wilson  as  general  factotum. 

"  You'll  come  down  to  the  meeting?  "  said  Templand- 
muir  to  Gourlay. 

Go  to  a  meeting  for  which  Wilson  had  sent  out  the 
bills!  At  another,  Gourlay  would  have  hurled  his  usual 
objurgation  that  he  would  see  him  condemned  to  eter- 
nal agonies  ere  he  granted  his  request!  But  Tem- 
plandmuir  was  different.  Gourlay  had  always  flattered 
this  man  (whom  he  inwardly  despised)  by  a  companion- 
ship which  made  proud  the  other.  He  had  always 
yielded  to  Templandmuir  in  small  things,  for  the  sake 

[112] 


CHAPTER  TWELVE 

of  the  quarry,  which  was  a  great  thing.  He  yielded  to 
him  now. 

"  Verra  well,"  he  said  shortly,  and  rose  to  get  his  hat. 

When  Gourlay  put  on  his  hat,  the  shallow  meanness 
of  his  brow  was  hid,  and  nothing  was  seen  to  impair  his 
dark  strong  gravity  of  face.  He  was  a  man  you  would 
have  turned  to  look  at,  as  he  marched  in  silence  by  the 
side  of  Templandmuir.  Though  taller  than  the  laird, 
he  looked  shorter  because  of  his  enormous  breadth. 
He  had  a  chest  like  the  heave  of  a  hill.  Templand- 
muir was  afraid  of  him.  And  fretting  at  the  necessity 
he  felt  to  quarrel  with  a  man  of  whom  he  was  afraid, 
he  had  an  unreasonable  hatred  of  Gourlay  whose  con- 
duct made  this  quarrel  necessary  at  the  same  time  that 
his  character  made  it  to  be  feared;  and  he  brooded  on 
his  growing  rage  that,  with  it  for  a  stimulus,  he  might 
work  his  cowardly  nature  to  the  point  of  quarrelling. 
Conscious  of  the  coming  row,  then,  he  felt  awkward  in 
the  i^resent,  and  was  ignorant  what  to  say.  Gourlay 
was  silent,  too.  He  felt  it  an  insult  to  the  House  with 
the  Green  Shutters  that  the  laird  should  refuse  its  prof- 
fered hospitality.  He  hated  to  be  dragged  to  a  meeting 
he  despised.  Never  before  was  such  irritation  between 
them. 

When  they  came  to  the  hall,  where  the  meeting  was 
convened,  there  were  knots  of  bodies  grouped  about  the 
floor.  Wilson  fluttered  from  group  to  group,  an  impor- 
tant man,  with  a  roll  of  papers  in  his  hand.  Gourlay, 
quick  for  once  in  his  dislike,  took  in  every  feature  of 
the  man  he  loathed. 

Wilson  was  what  the  sentimental  women  of  the  neigh- 
bourhood called  a  "  bonny  man."     His  features  were 

[113] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GKEEN  SHUTTERS 

remarkably  regular,  and  his  complexion  was  remarkably 
fair.  His  brow  was  so  delicate  of  hue  that  the  blue 
veins  running  down  his  temples  could  be  traced  dis- 
tinctly beneath  the  whiteness  of  the  skin.  Unluckily 
for  him  he  was  so  fair,  that  in  a  strong  light  (as  now 
beneath  the  gas)  the  suspicion  of  his  unwashedness  be- 
came a  certainty — "as  if  he  got  a  bit  idle  slaik  now 
and  than,  and  never  a  good  rub,"  thought  Gourlay  in 
a  clean  disgust.  Full  lips  showed  themselves  bright 
red  in  the  middle  between  the  two  wings  of  a  very 
blonde  and  very  symmetrical  moustache.  The  ugly 
feature  of  the  face  was  the  blue  calculating  eyes.  They 
were  tender  round  the  lids,  so  that  the  white  lashes 
stuck  out  in  little  peaks.  And  in  conversation  he  had  a 
habit  of  peering  out  of  these  eyes  as  if  he  were  con- 
stantly spying  for  something  to  emerge  that  he  might 
twist  to  his  advantage.  As  he  talked  to  a  man  close 
by,  and  glimmered  (not  at  the  man  beside  him,  but  far 
away  in  the  distance  of  his  mind  at  some  chance  of  gain 
suggested  by  the  other's  words)  Gourlay  heard  him  say 
musingly,  "  Imphm;  imphm;  imphm;  there  might  be 
something  in  that!  "  nodding  his  head  and  stroking  his 
moustache,  as  he  uttered  each  meditative  '^  imphm." 

It  was  Wilson's  unconscious  revelation  that  his  mind 
was  busy  with  a  commercial  hint  which  he  had  stolen 
from  his  neighbour's  talk.  "  The  damned  sneck- 
drawer!  "  thought  Gourlay,  enlightened  by  his  hate, 
"  he's  sucking  Tam  Finlay's  brains,  to  steal  some  idea 
for  himsell!  "  And  still  as  Wilson  listened  he  mur- 
mured swiftly,  "Imphm!  I  see,  Mr.  Finlay;  imphm! 
imphm!  imphm!  "  nodding  his  head  and  pulling  his 
moustache  and  glimmering  at  his  new  "  opportunity." 

[  114  ] 


CHAPTER   TWELVE 

Our  insight  is'  often  deepest  into  those  we  hate,  be- 
cause annoyance  fixes  our  thought  on  them  to  probe. 
We  cannot  keep  our  minds  off  them — "  Why  do  they  do 
it?  "  we  snarl,  and  wondering  why,  we  find  out  their 
character.  Gourlay  was  not  an  observant  man,  but 
every  man  is  in  any  man  somewhere,  and  hate  to-night 
driving  his  mind  into  Wilson,  helped  him  to  read  him 
like  an  open  book.  He  recognized  with  a  vague  un- 
easiness— not  with  fear,  for  Gourlay  did  not  know  what 
it  meant,  but  with  uneasy  anger — the  superior  cunning 
of  his  rival.  Gourlay,  a  strong  block  of  a  man  cut  off 
from  the  world  by  impotence  of  speech,  could  never 
have  got  out  of  Finlay  what  Wilson  drew  from  him  in 
two  minutes'  easy  conversation. 

Wilson  ignored  Gourlay,  but  he  was  very  blithe  with 
Templandmuir  and  inveigled  him  off  to  a  corner. 
They  talked  together  very  briskly,  and  Wilson  laughed 
once  with  uplifted  head,  glancing  across  at  Gourlay  as 
he  laughed.     Curse  them,  were  they  speaking  of  him? 

The  hall  was  crammed  at  last,  and  the  important 
bodies  took  their  seats  upon  the  front  benches.  Gour- 
lay refused  to  be  seated  with  the  rest,  but  stood  near  the 
platform,  with  his  back  to  the  wall,  by  the  side  of  Tem- 
plandmuir. 

After  what  the  Provost  described  "  as  a  few  prelimi- 
nary remerks  " — they  lasted  half  an  hour — he  called  on 
Mr.  Wilson  to  address  the  meeting.  Wilson  descanted 
on  the  benefits  that  would  accrue  to  Barbie  if  it  got  the 
railway,  and  on  the  needcessity  for  a  "  long  pull  and  a 
strong  pull  and  a  pull  altogether  " — a  phrase  which  he 
repeated  many  times  in  the  course  of  his  address.  He 
sat  down  at  last  amid  thunders  of  applause. 

[  115  ] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GREEN  SHUTTERS 

"  There's  no  needcessity  for  me  to  make  a  loang 
speech,"  said  the  Provost. 

"  Hear,  hear!  "  said  Gourlay,  and  the  meeting  was 
unkind  enough  to  laugh. 

"  Order,  order!  "  cried  Wilson  perkily. 

"As  I  was  saying  when  I  was  grossly  interrupted," 
fumed  the  Provost,  "  there's  no  needcessity  for  me  to 
make  a  loang  speech.  I  had  thoat  we  were  a-all  agreed 
on  the  desirabeelity  of  the  rileway  coming  in  our  direc- 
tion. I  had  thoat,  after  the  able- — I  must  say  the  very 
able — speech  of  Mr.  Wilson,  that  there  wasn't  a  man  in 
this  room  so  shtupid  as  to  utter  a  word  of  dishapproval. 
I  had  thoat  we  might  proshced  at  woance  to  elect  a  depu- 
tation. I  had  thoat  we  would  get  the  name  of  every- 
body here  for  the  great  petition  we  mean  to  send  the 
Pow-ers.  I  had  thoat  it  was  all,  so  to  shpeak,  a  fore- 
gone conclusion.  But  it  seems  I  was  mistaken,  ladies 
and  gentlemen — or  rather,  I  oat  to  say  gentlemen,  for 
I  believe  there  are  no  ladies  present.  Yass,  it  seems  I 
was  mistaken.  It  may  be  there  are  some  who  would 
like  to  keep  Barbie  going  on  in  the  oald  way  which  they 
found  so  much  to  their  advantage.  It  may  be  there  are 
some  who  regret  a  change  that  will  put  an  end  to  their 
chances  of  tyraneezin'.  It  may  be  there  are  some  who 
know  themselves  so  shtupid  that  they  fear  the  new  con- 
dcetions  of  trade  the  railway's  bound  to  bring." — Here 
Wilson  rose  and  whispered  in  his  ear,  and  the  people 
watched  them,  wondering  what  hint  J.  W.  was  passing 
to  the  Provost.  The  Provost  leaned  with  pompous 
gravity  toward  his  monitor,  hand  at  ear  to  catch  the 
treasured  words.  He  nodded  and  resumed. — "  Now, 
gentlemen,  as  Mr.  Wilson  said,  this  is  a  case  that  needs 

[  IIG  J 


CHAPTER  TWELVE 

a  loang  pull,  and  a  stroang  pull,  and  a  pull  altogether. 
We  must  be  unanimous.  It  will  noat  do  to  show  our* 
selves  divided  among  ourselves.  Therefore,  I  think, 
we  oat  to  have  expressions  of  opinion  from  some  of  our 
leading  townsmen.  That  will  show  how  far  we  are 
unanimous.  I  had  thoat  there  could  be  only  one  opin- 
ion, and  that  we  might  prosheed  at  once  with  the  peti- 
tion. But  it  seems  I  was  wroang.  It  is  best  to  enquire 
first  exactly  where  we  stand.  So  I  call  upon  Mr,  John 
Gourlay  who  has  been  the  foremost  man  in  the  town  for 
mainy  years — at  least  he  used  to  be  that — I  call  upon 
Mr.  Gourlay  as  the  first  to  express  an  opinion  on  the 
subjeck." 

Wilson's  hint  to  the  Provost  placed  Gourlay  in  a  fine 
dilemma.  Stupid  as  he  was  he  was  not  so  stupid  as  not 
to  perceive  the  general  advantage  of  the  railway.  If  he 
approved  it,  however,  he  would  seem  to  support  Wilson 
and  the  Provost  whom  he  loathed.  If  he  disapproved, 
his  opposition  would  be  set  down  to  a  selfish  considera- 
tion for  his  own  trade,  and  he  would  incur  the  anger 
of  the  meeting,  which  was  all  for  the  coming  of  the  rail- 
way. Wilson  had  seized  the  cliance  to  put  him  in  a  false 
position.  He  knew  Gourlay  could  not  put  forty  words 
together  in  public,  and  that  in  his  dilemma  he  would 
blunder  and  give  himself  away. 

Gourlay  evaded  the  question. 

"  It  would  be  better  to  convene  a  meeting,"  he  bawled 
to  the  Provost,  "  to  consider  the  state  of  some  folk's 
back-doors." — That  was  a  nipper  to  Wilson! — "  There's 
a  stink  at  the  Cross  that's  enough  to  kill  a  cuddy!  " 

"  Evidently  not,"  yelled  Wilson,  "  since  you're  still 
alive!  " 

[117] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GREEN  SHUTTERS 

A  roar  went  up  against  Gourlay.  All  he  could  do 
was  to  scowl  before  him,  with  hard-set  mouth  and 
gleaming  eyes,  while  they  bellowed  him  to  scorn. 

"  I  would  like  to  hear  what  Templandmuir  has  to  say 
on  the  subject,"  said  Wilson  getting  up.  "  But  no 
doubt  he'll  follow  his  friend,  Mr.  Gourlay." 

"  No,  I  don't  follow  Mr.  Gourlay,"  bawled  Templand- 
muir with  unnecessary  loudness.  The  reason  of  liis  ve- 
liemenee  was  twofold.  He  was  nettled  (as  Wilson 
meant  lie  should)  by  the  suggestion  that  he  was  noth- 
ing but  Gourlay's  henchman.  And,  being  eager  to  op- 
pose Gourlay,  yet  a  coward,  he  yelled  to  supply  in  noise 
what  he  lacked  in  resolution. 

"I  don't  follow  Mr.  Gourlay  at  all,"  he  roared. 
"  I  follow  nobody  but  myself!  Every  man  in  the  dis- 
trict's in  support  of  this  petition.  It  would  be  ab- 
surd to  suppose  anything  else.  I'll  be  glad  to 
sign't  among  the  first,  and  do  everything  I  can  in 
its  support." 

"  Verra  well,"  said  the  Provost,  "  it  seems  we're 
agreed  after  all.  We'll  get  some  of  our  foremost  men 
to  sign  the  petition  at  this  end  of  the  hall,  and  then 
it'll  be  placed  in  the  anteroom  for  the  rest  to  sign  as 
they  go  out." 

"Take  it  across  to  Gourlay,"  whispered  Wilson  to 
the  two  men  who  were  carrying  the  enormous  tome. 
They  took  it  over  to  the  grain-merchant,  and  one  of 
them  handed  him  an  inkhorn.  He  dashed  it  to  the 
ground. 

The  meeting  hissed  like  a  cellarful  of  snakes.  But 
Gourlay  turned  and  glowered  at  them,  and  somehow 
the  hisses  died  away.     His  was  the  high  courage  that 

[118] 


CHAPTER  TWELVE 

feeds  on  hate,  and  welcomes  rather  than  shrinks  from 
its  expression.     He  was  smiling  as  he  faced  them. 

"  Let  me  pass/'  he  said,  and  shouldered  his  way  to  the 
door,  the  bystanders  falling  back  to  make  room.  Tem- 
plandmuir  followed  him  out. 

"  I'll  walk  to  the  head  o'  the  brae,"  said  the  Templar. 

He  must  have  it  out  with  Gourlay  at  once,  or  else  go 
home  to  meet  the  anger  of  his  wife.  Having  opposed 
Gourlay  already,  he  felt  that  now  was  the  time  to  break 
with  him  for  good.  Only  a  little  was  needed  to  com- 
plete the  rupture.  And  he  was  the  more  impelled  to 
declare  himself  to-night  because  he  had  Just  seen  Gour- 
lay discomfited,  and  was  beginning  to  despise  the  man 
he  had  formerly  admired.  Why  the  whole  meeting  had 
laughed  at  his  expense!  In  quarrelling  with  Gourlay, 
moreover,  he  would  have  the  whole  locality  behind  him. 
He  would  range  himself  on  the  popular  side.  Every 
impulse  of  mind  and  body  pushed  him  forward  to  the 
brink  of  speech;  he  would  never  get  a  better  occasion 
to  bring  out  his  grievance. 

They  trudged  together  in  a  burning  silence.  Though 
nothing  was  said  between  them,  each  was  in  wrathful 
contact  with  the  other's  mind.  Gourlay  blamed  every- 
thing that  had  happened  on  Templandmuir,  who  had 
dragged  him  to  the  meeting  and  deserted  him.  And 
Templandmuir  was  longing  to  begin  about  the  quarry, 
but  afraid  to  start. 

That  was  why  he  began  at  last  with  false  unnecessary 
loudness.  It  was  partly  to  encourage  himself  (as  a  bull 
bellows  to  increase  his  rage)  and  partly  because  his  spite 
had  been  so  long  controlled.  It  burst  the  louder  for  its 
pent  fury. 

[119] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GKEEN  SHUTTEKS 

"  Mr.  Gourlay!  "  he  bawled  suddenly,  when  they  came 
opposite  the  House  with  the  Green  Shutters,  "  I've  had 
a  crow  to  pick  with  you  for  more  than  a  year!  " 

It  came  on  Gourlay  with  a  flash  that  Templandmuir 
was  slipping  away  from  him.  But  he  must  answer  him 
civilly  for  the  sake  of  the  quarry. 

"  Aye  man,"  he  said  quietly,  "  and  what  may 
that  be?  " 

"  I'll  damned  soon  tell  you  what  it  is,"  said  the  Tem- 
plar. "  Yon  was  a  monstrous  overcharge  for  bringing 
my  ironwork  from  Fleckie.  I'll  be  damned  if  I  put 
up  with  that!  " 

And  yet  it  was  only  a  trifle.  He  had  put  up  with  fifty 
worse  impositions  and  never  said  a  word.  But  when  a 
man  is  bent  on  a  quarrel  any  spark  will  do  for  an  ex- 
plosion. 

"  How  do  ye  make  that  out?  "  said  Gourlay,  still  very 
quietly,  lest  he  should  alienate  the  quarry  laird. 

"  Damned  fine  do  I  make  that  out,"  yelled  Templand- 
muir, and  louder  than  ever  was  the  yell.  He  was  the 
brave  man  now,  with  his  bellow  to  hearten  him. 
"  Damned  fine  do  I  make  that  out.  Yo\i  charged  mo  for 
a  whole  day,  though  half  o't  was  spent  upon  your  own 
concerns.  I'm  tired  o'  you  and  your  cheatry.  You've 
made  a  braw  penny  out  o'  mo  in  your  time.  But  curse 
me  if  I  endure  it  loanger.  I  give  you  notice  this  verra 
night  that  your  tack  o'  the  quarry  must  end  at  Mar- 
tinmas." 

He  was  ofi',  glad  to  have  it  out  and  glad  to  escape  the 
consequence,  leaving  Gourlay  a  cauldron  of  wrath  in  the 
darkness.  It  was  not  mci-ely  the  material  loss  that 
iriaildened  him.     But  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  had 

I  r»o  I 


CHAPTER  TWELVE 

taken  a  rebuff  without  a  word  or  a  blow  in  return.  In 
his  desire  to  conciliate  he  had  let  Templandmuir  get 
away  unscathed.     His  blood  rocked  him  where  he  stood. 

He  walked  blindly  to  the  kitchen  door — never  know- 
ing how  he  reached  it.  It  was  locked — at  this  early 
hour! — and  the  simple  inconvenience  let  loose  the  fury 
of  his  wrath.  He  struck  the  door  with  his  clenched  fist 
till  the  blood  streamed  on  his  knuckles. 

It  was  Mrs.  Gourlay  who  opened  the  door  to  him. 
She  started  back  before  his  awful  eyes. 

"  John!  "  she  cried,  "  what's  wrong  wi'  ye?  " 

The  sight  of  the  she-tatterdemalion  there  before  him, 
whom  he  had  endured  so  long  and  must  endure  for- 
ever, was  the  crowning  burden  of  his  night.  Damn  her, 
why  didn't  she  get  out  of  the  way,  why  did  she  stand 
there  in  her  dirt  and  ask  silly  questions?  He  struck 
her  on  the  bosom  with  his  great  fist,  and  sent  her  spin- 
ning on  the  dirty  table. 

She  rose  from  among  the  broken  dishes,  and  came 
towards  him,  with  slack  lips  and  great  startled  eyes. 
"John,"  she  panted,  lilce  a  pitiful  frightened  child, 
"  what  have  I  been  doing?  ....  Man,  what  did 
you  hit  me  for?  " 

He  gaped  at  her  with  hanging  jaw.  He  knew  he  was 
a  brute — knew  she  had  done  nothing  to-night  more  than 
she  had  ever  done,  knew  he  had  vented  on  her  a  wrath 
that  should  have  burst  on  others.  But  his  mind  was  at 
a  stick;  how  could  he  explain — to  Tier'?  He  gaped  and 
glowered  for  a  speechless  moment,  then  turned  on  his 
heel  and  went  into  the  parlour,  slamming  the  door  till 
the  windows  rattled  in  their  frames. 

She  stared  after  him  a  while  in  large-eyed  stupor, 

[  121  ] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GEEEN  SHUTTERS 

then  flung  herself  in  her  old  nursing  chair  by  the  fire, 
and  spat  blood  in  the  ribs,  hawking  it  up  coarsely — we 
forget  to  be  delicate  in  moments  of  supremer  agony. 
And  then  she  flung  her  apron  over  her  head  and  rocked 
herself  to  and  fro  in  the  chair  where  she  had  nursed  his 
children,  wailing:  "  It's  a  pity  o'  me,  it's  a  pity  o'  me! 
My  God,  aye,  it's  a  geyan  pity  o'  me!  " 

The  boy  was  in  bed,  but  Janet  had  watched  the  scene 
with  a  white  scared  face  and  tearful  cries.  She  crept 
to  her  mother's  side. 

The  sympathy  of  children  with  those  who  weep  is 
innocently  selfish.  The  sight  of  tears  makes  them  un- 
comfortable, and  they  want  them  to  cease,  in  the  inter- 
ests of  their  own  happiness.  If  the  outward  signs  of 
grief  would  only  vanish,  all  would  be  well.  They  are 
not  old  enough  to  appreciate  the  inward  agony. 

So  Janet  tugged  at  the  obscuring  apron,  and  whim- 
pered, "  Don't  greet,  mother,  don't  greet.  Woman,  I 
dinna  like  to  see  ye  greetin'." 

But  Mrs.  Gourlay  still  rocked  herself  and  wailed,  "  It's 
a  pity  o'  me,  it's  a  pity  o'  me;  my  God,  aye,  it's  a  geyan 
pity  o'  me." 


[122] 


XIII 

"  Is  he  in  himsell?  "  asked  Gibson  the  builder,  com- 
ing into  the  Emporium. 

Mrs.  Wilson  was  alone  in  the  shop.  Since  trade  grew 
so  brisk  she  had  an  assistant  to  help  her,  but  he  was  out 
for  his  breakfast  at  present,  and  as  it  happened  she  was 
all  alone. 

"  No,"  she  said,  "  he's  no  in!  We're  terribly  driven 
this  twelvemonth  back,  since  trade  grew  so  thrang,  and 
he's  aye  hunting  business  in  some  corner.  He's  out  the 
now  after  a  carrying  affair.  Was  it  ainything  par- 
ticular? " 

She  looked  at  Gibson  with  a  speculation  in  her  eyes 
that  almost  verged  on  hostility.  Wives  of  the  lower 
classes  who  are  active  helpers  in  a  husband's  affairs, 
often  direct  that  look  upon  strangers  who  approach  him 
in  the  way  of  business.  For  they  are  enemies  whatever 
way  you  take  them;  come  to  be  done  by  the  husband  or 
to  do  him — in  either  case,  therefore,  the  object  of  a 
sharp  curiosity.  You  may  call  on  an  educated  man. 
either  to  fleece  him  or  be  fleeced,  and  his  wife,  though 
she  knows  all  about  it,  will  talk  to  you  charmingly  of 
trifles,  while  you  wait  for  him  in  her  parlour.  But  a 
wife  of  the  lower  orders,  active  in  her  husband's  affairs, 
has  not  been  trained  to  dissemble  so  prettily — though 
her  face  be  a  mask,  what  she  is  wondering  comes  out  in 
her  eye.     There  was  suspicion  in  the  big  round  stare 

[123] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GREEN  SHUTTERS 

that  Mrs,  Wilson  directed  at  the  builder.  AVhat  was  he 
spiering  for  "  himsell  "  for?  What  could  he  be  up  to? 
Some  end  of  his  own,  no  doubt.  Anxious  curiosity 
forced  her  to  enquire. 

"  Would  I  do  instead?  "  she  asked. 

"  Well,  hardly/'  said  Gibson,  clawing  his  chin,  and 
gazing  at  a  corded  round  of  "  Barbie's  Best  "  jvist  above 
his  head.  '*'  Dod,  it's  a  fine  ham  that,"  he  said,  to  turn 
the  subject.    "  How  are  ye  selling  it  the  now?  " 

"  Tenpence  a  pound  retail,  but  ninepence  only  if  ye 
take  a  whole  one.  Ye  had  better  let  me  send  you  one, 
Mr.  Gibson,  now  that  winter's  drawing  on!  It's  a 
heartsome  thing,  the  smell  of  frying  ham  on  a  frosty 
morning — "  and  her  laugh  went  skelloching  up  the 
street. 

"  Well,  ye  see,"  said  Gibson  with  a  grin,  "  I  expect 
Mr.  Wilson  to  present  me  with  one,  when  he  hears  the 
news  that  I  have  brought  him." 

"  Aha!  "  said  she,  "  it's  something  good,  then,"  and 
she  stuck  her  arms  akimbo.  "  James! "  she  shrilled, 
"  James!  " — and  the  red-haired  boy  shot  from  the  back 
premises. 

"  Run  up  to  the  Red  Lion,  and  see  if  your  father  has 
finished  his  crack  wi'  Templandmuir.  Tell  him  Mr. 
Gibson  wants  to  see  him  on  important  business." 

The  boy  squinted  once  at  the  visitor,  and  scooted,  the 
red  head  of  him  foremost. 

While  Gibson  waited  and  clawed  his  chin  she  exam- 
ined him  narrowly.  Suspicion  as  to  the  object  of  his 
visit  fixed  her  attention  on  his  face. 

He  was  a  man  with  mean  brown  eyes.  Brown  eyes 
may  be  clear  and  limpid  as  a  mountain  pool,  or  they  may 

[  124  ] 


CHAPTER  THIETEEN 

fiave  the  line  black  flash  of  anger  and  the  jovial  gleam, 
or  they  may  be  mean  things — little  and  sly  and  oily. 
Gibson's  had  the  depth  of  cunning,  not  the  depth  of 
character,  and  they  glistened  like  the  eyes  of  a  lustful 
animal.  He  was  a  reddish  man,  with  a  fringe  of  sandy 
beard,  and  a  perpetvial  grin  which  showed  his  yellow 
teeth,  with  green  deposit  round  their  roots.  It  was 
more  than  a  grin,  it  was  a  rictus,  semicircular  from 
cheek  to  cheek,  and  the  bead}^  eyes,  ever  on  the  watch 
up  above  it,  belied  its  false  benevolence.  He  was  not 
florid,  yet  that  grin  of  his  seemed  to  intensify  his  red- 
dishness  (perhaps  because  it  brought  out  and  made 
prominent  his  sandy  valance  and  the  ruddy  round  of  his 
cheeks)  so  that  the  baker  christened  him  long  ago  "  the 
man  with  the  sandy  smile."  "  Cunning  Johnny  "  was 
his  other  nickname.  Wilson  had  recognized  a  match 
in  him  the  moment  he  came  to  Barbie,  and  had  resolved 
to  act  with  him  if  he  could,  but  never  to  act  against  him. 
They  had  made  advances  to  each  other.  Birds  of  a 
feather,  in  short. 

The  grocer  came  in  hurriedly,  white-waistcoated  to- 
day, and  a  perceptibly  bigger  bulge  in  his  belly  than 
when  we  first  saw  him  in  Barbie,  four  years  ago  now. 

"  Good  morning,  Mr.  Gibson,"  he  panted.  "  Is  it 
private  that  ye  wanted  to  see  me  on?  " 

"  Verra  private,"  said  the  sandy  smiler. 

"  We'll  go  through  to  the  house  then,"  said  Wilson, 
and  ushered  his  guest  through  the  back  premises.  But 
the  voice  of  his  wife  recalled  him.  "  James!  "  she  cried. 
"  Here  for  a  minute  jiist!  "  and  he  turned  to  her,  leaving 
Gibson  in  the  yard. 

"  Be  careful  what  you're  doing,"  she  whispered  in  his 

[125] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GREEN  SHUTTERS 

ear.  "  It  wasna  for  nothing  they  christened  Gibson 
*  Cunning  Johnny.'     Keep  the  dirt  out  your  e'en." 

"  There's  no  fear  of  that,"  he  assured  her  pompously. 
It  was  a  grand  thing  to  have  a  wife  like  that,  but  her 
advice  nettled  him  now  just  a  little,  because  it  seemed 
to  imply  a  doubt  of  his  efhciency — and  that  was  quite 
onnecessar.  He  knew  what  he  was  doing.  They  would 
need  to  rise  very  early  that  got  the  better  o'  a  man  like 
him! 

"You'll  take  a  dram?"  said  Wilson  when  they 
reached  a  pokey  little  room  where  the  most  conspicuous 
and  dreary  object  was  a  large  bare  flowerpot  of  red 
earthenware,  on  a  green  woollen  mat,  in  the  middle  of  a 
round  table.  Out  of  the  flowerpot  rose  gauntly  a  three- 
sticked  frame,  up  which  two  lonely  stalks  of  a  climbing 
plant  tried  to  scramble,  but  failed  miserably  to  reach  the 
top.  The  round  little  ricketty  table  with  the  family 
album  on  one  corner  (placed  at  what  Mrs.  Wilson  con- 
sidered a  beautiful  artistic  angle  to  the  window),  the 
tawdry  cloth,  the  green  mat,  the  shiny  horsehair  sofa, 
and  the  stufi^y  atmosphere,  were  all  in  a  perfect  harmony 
of  ugliness.  A  sampler  on  the  wall  informed  the  world 
that  there  was  no  place  like  home. 

Wilson  pushed  the  flowerpot  to  one  side,  and  "  You'll 
take  a  dram?  "  he  said  blithely. 

"  Oh,  aye,"  said  Gibson  with  a  grin,  "  I  never  refuse 
drink  when  I'm  offered  it  for  nothing." 

"  Hi!  hi!  "  laughed  Wilson  at  the  little  joke,  and  pro- 
duced a  cut  decanter  and  a  pair  of  glasses.  He  filled 
the  glasses  so  brimming  full  that  the  drink  ran  over  on 
the  table. 

"Canny,  man,  for  God's  sake  canny!"  cried  Gibson 

[126] 


CHAPTER   THIRTEEN 

starting  forward  in  alarm.  "  Don't  ye  see  you're  spill- 
ing the  mercies?  "  He  stooped  his  lips  to  the  rim  of 
his  glass,  and  sipped,  lest  a  drop  of  Scotia's  nectar 
should  escape  him. 

They  faced  each  other,  sitting.  "  Here's  pith!  "  said 
Gibson — "  Pith! "  said  the  other  in  chorus,  and  they 
nodded  to  each  other  in  amity,  primed  glasses  up  and 
ready.  And  then  it  was  eyes  heavenward  and  the  little 
finger  uppermost. 

Gibson  smacked  his  lips  once  and  again  when  the  fiery 
spirit  tickled  his  uvula. 

"  Ha!  "  said  he,  "  that's  the  stuff  to  put  heart  in 
a  man." 

"  It's  no  bad  whiskey,"  said  Wilson  complacently. 

Gibson  wiped  the  sandy  stubble  round  his  mouth  with 
the  back  of  his  hand,  and  considered  for  a  moment. 
Then,  leaning  forward,  he  tapped  Wilson's  knee  in  whis- 
pering importance. 

"Have  you  heard  the  news?  "  he  murmured,  with  a 
watchful  glimmer  in  his  eyes. 

"  No !  "  cried  Wilson  glowering,  eager  and  alert.  "  Is't 
ocht  in  the  business  line?  Is  there  a  possibeelity  for 
me  in't?  " 

"  Oh,  there  might,"  nodded  Gibson,  playing  his  man 
for  a  while. 

"Aye  man !  "  cried  Wilson  briskly,  and  brought  his 
chair  an  inch  or  two  forward.  Gibson  grinned  and 
watched  him  with  his  beady  eyes. — "  What  green  teeth 
he  has! "  thought  Wilson  who  was  not  fastidious. 

"  The  Coal  Company  are  meaning  to  erect  a  village 
for  five  hundred  miners  a  mile  out  the  Fleckie  Eoad, 
and  they're   running  a  branch   line   up   the   Lintie's 

[137] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GREEN  SHUTTERS 

Uuni,  tlialll  ueed  the  building  oi'  a  dozen  brigs.  I'm 
happy  to  say  I  have  nabbed  the  contract  for  the 
building." 

"  ^lan,  Mr.  Gibson,  d'ye  tell  me  that!  I'm  proud  to 
hear  it,  sir;  I  am  that!  "  Wilson  was  botching  in  his 
chair  with  eagerness.  For  what  could  Gibson  be  want- 
ing with  him  if  it  wasna  to  arrange  about  the  carting? 
"  Fill  up  your  glass,  Mr.  Gibson,  man;  fill  up  your  glass! 
You're  drinking  nothing  at  all.     Let  nie  help  you!  " 

"Aye,  but  I  havena  the  contract  for  the  carting,"  said 
Gibson.  "  That's  not  mine  to  dispose  of.  They  mean 
to  keep  it  in  their  own  hand." 

Wilson's  mouth  forgot  to  shut,  and  his  eyes  were  big 
and  round  as  his  mouth  in  staring  disappointment. 
Was  it  this  he  was  wasting  his  drink  for? 

"  Where  do  I  come  in  ?  "  he  asked  blankly. 

Gibson  tossed  off  another  glassful  of  the  burning 
heartener  of  men,  and  leaned  forward  with  his  elbows 
on  the  table. 

"  D'ye  ken  Goudie,  the  Company's  Manager?  He's 
worth  making  up  to,  I  can  tell  ye.  He  has  complete 
control  of  the  business,  and  can  airt  you  the  road  of  a 
good  thing.  I  made  a  point  of  helping  him  in  every- 
thing, ever  since  he  came  to  Barbie,  and  I'm  glad  to  say 
that  he  hasna  forgotten't.  Man,  it  was  through  him  I 
got  the  building  contract — they  never  threw't  open  to 
the  public.  But  they  mean  to  contract  separate  for 
carting  the  material.  That  means  that  they'll  need  the 
length  of  a  dozen  horses  on  the  road  for  a  twelvemonth 
to  come;  for  it's  no  only  the  building — they're  launch- 
ing out  on  a  big  scale,  and  there's  lots  of  other  things 
forbye.     Now  Goudie's  as  close  as  a  whin  and  likes  to 

[128] 


CHAPTER  THIRTEEN 

keep  everything  dark  till  the  proper  time  comes  for 
sploriug  o't.  Not  a  whisper  has  been  heard  so  far  about 
this  village  for  the  miners — there's  a  rumour,  to  be 
sure,  about  a  wheen  houses  going  up,  but  nothing  near 
the  reality.  .Vud  there's  not  a  soul,  either,  that  kens 
there's  a  big  contract  for  carting  to  be  had  'ceptna  Gou- 
die  and  mysell.  But  or  a  month's  bye,  they'll  be  adver- 
tising for  estimates  for  a  twelvemonth's  carrying.  I 
thocht  a  hint  aforehand  would  be  worth  something  to 
you,  and  that's  the  reason  of  my  visit." 

"  I  see,"  said  Wilson  briskly.  "  You're  verra  good, 
Mr.  Gibson.  You  mean  you'll  give  me  an  inkling  in 
private  of  the  other  estimates  sent  in,  and  help  to  ar- 
range mine  according?  " 

"  Na,"  said  Gibson.  "  Goudie's  owre  close  to  let  me 
ken!  I'll  speak  a  word  in  his  ear  on  your  behalf,  to  be 
sure,  if  you  agree  to  the  proposal  I  mean  to  put  before 
you.  But  Gourlay's  the  man  you  need  to  keep  your  eye 
on.  It's  you  or  him  for  the  contract — there's  nobody 
else  to  compete  wi'  the  two  o'  ye." 

"  Imphm,  I  see,"  said  Wilson,  and  tugged  his  mous- 
tache in  meditation.  All  expression  died  out  of  his  face 
while  his  brain  churned  within.  What  Brodie  had  chris- 
tened "  the  considering  keek  "  was  in  his  eyes;  they  were 
far  away,  and  saw  the  distant  village  in  process  of  erec- 
tion; busy  with  its  chances  and  occasions.  Then  an  un- 
easy thought  seemed  to  strike  him  and  recall  him  to  the 
man  by  his  side.  He  stole  a  shifty  glance  at  the  sandy 
smile  r. 

"  But  I  thought  you  were  a  friend  of  Gourlay's,"  he 
said  slowly. 

"  Friendship!"  said  Gibson.  "We're  speaking  of  busi- 

[129] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GREEN  SHUTTERS 

ness!  And  there's  sma-all  frieudship  atween  me  and 
Gourlay.  He  was  nebby  owre  a  bill  I  sent  in  the  other 
day;  and  I'm  getting  tired  of  his  bluster.  Besides, 
there's  little  more  to  be  made  of  him.  Gourlay's  bye 
wi't.  But  you're  a  rising  man,  Mr.  Wilson,  and  I  think 
that  you  and  me  might  work  thegither  to  our  own  ad- 
vantage, don't  ye  see?  Yes;  just  so;  to  the  advantage 
of  us  both.     Oom?  " 

"  I  hardly  see  what  you're  driving  at,"  said  Wilson, 

"  I'm  driving  at  this,"  said  Gibson.  "  If  Gourlay  kens 
you're  against  him  for  the  contract,  he'll  cut  his  esti- 
mate down  to  a  ruinous  price,  out  o'  sheer  spite — yes, 
out  o'  sheer  spite — rather  than  be  licked  by  you  in  public 
competition.  And  if  he  does  that,  Goudie  and  I  may 
do  what  we  like,  but  we  canna  help  you.  For  it's  the 
partners  that  decide  the  estimates  sent  in,  d'ye  see? 
Imphm,  it's  the  partners.  Goudie  has  noathing  to  do  wi' 
that.  And  if  Gourlay  once  gets  round  the  partners, 
you'll  be  left  out  in  the  cold  for  a  very  loang  time. 
Shivering,  sir,  shivering!     You  will  that!  " 

"  Dod,  you're  right.  There's  a  danger  of  that.  But 
I  fail  to  see  how  we  can  prevent  it!  " 

"  We  can  put  Gourlay  on  a  wrong  scent,"  said  Gibson. 

"But  how  though?" 

Gibson  met  one  question  by  another. 

"  What  was  the  charge  for  a  man  and  a  horse  and  a 
day's  carrying  when  ye  first  came  hereaway?  "  he  asked. 

"  Only  four  shillings  a  day,"  said  Wilson  promptly. 
"  It  has  risen  to  six  now,"  he  added. 

"Exactly!"  said  Gibson;  "and  with  the  new  works 
coming  in  about  tlie  town  it'll  rise  to  eight  yet!  I  have 
it  for  a  fact  that  the  Company's  willing  to  gie  that! 

[  130  ] 


CHAPTER  THIRTEEN 

Now  if  you  and  me  could  procure  a  job  for  Gourlay  at 
the  lower  rate,  before  the  news  o'  this  new  industry 
gets  scattered — a  job  that  would  require  the  whole  of 
his  plant,  you  understand,  and  prevent  his  competing 
for  the  Company's  business — we  would  clear  " — he 
clawed  his  chin  to  help  his  arithmetic — "  we  would  clear 
three  hundred  and  seventy-four  pounds  o'  difference  on 
the  twelvemonth.  At  least  you  would  make  that,"  he 
added,  "  but  you  would  allow  me  a  handsome  commis- 
sion of  course — the  odd  hundred  and  seventy,  say — for 
bringing  the  scheme  before  ye!  I  don't  think  there's 
ocht  unreasonable  in  tha-at!  For  it's  not  the  mere 
twelvemonth's  work  that's  at  stake,  you  understand,  it's 
the  valuable  connection  for  the  fee-yuture!  Now,  I 
have  influence  wi'  Goudie;  I  can  help  you  there.  But  if 
Gourlay  gets  in  there's  just  a  chance  that  you'll  never 
be  able  to  oust  him." 

"  I  see,"  said  Wilson.  "  Before  he  knows  what's  com- 
ing, we're  to  provide  work  xcr  Gourlay  at  the  lower  rate, 
both  to  put  money  in  our  own  pocket  and  prevent  him 
competing  for  the  better  business." 

"  You've  summed  it  to  the  nines,"  said  Gibson. 

"  Yes,"  said  Wilson  blankly,  "  but  how  on  earth  are 
we  to  provide  work  for  him?  " 

Gibson  leaned  forward  a  second  time  and  tapped 
Wilson  on  the  knee. 

"  Have  you  never  considered  what  a  chance  for  build- 
ing there's  in  that  holm  of  yours?  "  he  asked.  "  You've 
a  fortune  there,  lying  undeveloped!  " 

That  was  the  point  to  which  Cunning  Johnny  had 
been  leading  all  the  time.  He  cared  as  little  for  Wilson 
as  for  Gourlay;  all  he  wanted  was  a  contract  for  cover- 

[  131  ] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GREEN  SHUTTERS 

ing  Wilson's  lioliii  with  jerry-built  houses,  and  a  good 
commission  on  the  year's  carrying.  It  was  for  this  he 
evolved  the  conspiracy  to  cri})plc  Gourlay. 

Wilson's  thoughts  went  to  and  fro  like  the  shuttle  of  a 
weaver.  He  blinked  in  rapidity  of  thinking,  and  stole 
shifty  glances  at  his  comrade.  He  tugged  his  mous- 
tache and  said  "  Imphm  "  many  times.  Then  his  eyes 
went  off  in  their  long  preoccupied  stare,  and  the  sound 
of  the  breath,  coming  heavy  through  his  nostrils,  was 
audible  in  the  quiet  room.  Wilson  was  one  of  the  men 
whom  you  hear  thinking. 

"  I  see,"  he  said  slowly.  "  You  mean  to  bind  Gour- 
lay to  cart  building  material  to  my  holm,  at  the  present 
price  of  work.  You'll  bind  him  in  general  terms  so 
that  he  canna  suspect,  till  the  time  comes,  who  in  par- 
ticular he's  to  work  for.  In  the  meantime  I'll  be  free 
to  offer  for  the  Company's  business  at  the  higher  price." 

"  That's  the  size  o't,"  said  Gibson. 

Wilson  was  staggered  by  the  rapid  combinations  of 
the  scheme.  But  Cunning  Johnny  had  him  in  the  toils. 
The  plan  he  proposed  stole  about  the  grocer's  every  weak- 
ness, and  tugged  his  inclinations  to  consent.  It  was  very 
important,  he  considered,  that  he,  and  no  other,  should 
obtain  this  contract,  which  was  both  valuable  in  itself 
and  an  earnest  of  other  business  in  the  future.  And 
Gibson's  scheme  got  Gourlay,  the  only  possible  rival, 
out  the  way.  For  it  was  not  possible  for  Gourlay  to 
put  more  than  twelve  horses  on  the  road,  and  if  he 
thought  he  had  secured  a  good  contract  already,  he 
would  never  dream  of  applying  for  another.  Then, 
Wilson's  malice  was  gratified  by  the  thought  that  Gour- 
lay, who  hated  him,  should  have  to  serve,  as  helper  and 

[132] 


CHAPTER  THIRTEEN 

uuderling-,  in  a  scheme  for  his  aggrandizement.  That 
would  take  down  his  pride  for  him!  And  the  commer- 
cial imagination,  so  strong  in  AVilson,  was  inflamed  by 
the  vision  of  himself  as  a  wealthy  house-owner  wliich 
Gibson  put  before  him.  Cunning  Johnny  knew  all  this 
when  he  broached  the  scheme — he  foresaw  the  pull  of  it 
on  Wilson's  nature.  Yet  Wilson  hesitated.  He  did  not 
like  to  give  himself  to  Gibson  quite  so  rapidly. 

"  You  go  fast,  Mr.  Gibson,"  said  he.  "  Faith,  you  go 
fast!  This  is  a  big  aifair,  and  needs  to  be  looked  at  for 
a  while." 

"  Fast !  "  cried  Gibson.  "  Damn  it,  we  have  no  time 
to  waste.    We  maun  act  on  the  spur  of  the  moment." 

"  I'll  have  to  borrow  money,"  said  Wilson  slowly, 
"  and  it's  verra  dear  at  the  present  time." 

"  It  was  never  worth  more  in  Barbie  than  it  is  at  the 
present  time.  ]\Ian,  don't  ye  see  the  chance  you're  neg- 
lecting? Don't  ye  see  what  it  means?  There's  thou- 
sands lying  at  your  back  door  if  ye'll  only  reach  to  pick 
them  up!  Yes,  thousands!  Thousands,  I'm  telling  ye! 
Thousands!  " 

Wilson  saw  himself  provost  and  plutocrat.  Yet  was 
he  cautious. 

"  You^W  do  well  by  the  scheme,"  he  said  tartly,  "  if 
you  get  the  sole  contract  for  building  these  premises  of 
mine,  and  a  fat  commission  on  the  carrying  forbye!  " 

"  Can  you  carry  the  scheme  without  me? "  said 
Gibson.  "  A  word  from  me  to  Goudie  means  a  heap." 
There  was  a  veiled  threat  in  the  remark. 

"  Oh,  we'll  come  to  terms,"  said  the  other.  "  But 
how  will  you  manage  Gourlay?  " 

"Aha!"  said  Gibson,  "I'll  come  in  handy  for  that, 

[133] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GREEN  SHUTTERS 

you'll  discover!  There's  been  a  backset  in  Barbie  for 
the  last  year — things  went  owre  quick  at  the  start  and 
were  followed  by  a  wee  lull;  but  it's  only  for  a  time,  sir, 
it's  only  for  a  time.  Hows'ever,  it  and  you  thegither 
have  damaged  Gourlay — he's  both  short  o'  work  and 
scarce  o'  cash,  as  I  found  to  my  cost  when  I  asked  him 
for  my  siller!  So  when  I  offer  him  a  big  contract  for 
carting  stones  atween  the  quarry  and  the  town  foot,  he'll 
swallow  it  without  question.  I'll  insert  a  clause  that  he 
must  deliver  the  stuff  at  such  places  as  I  direct  within 
four  hundred  yards  of  the  Cross,  in  ainy  direction — for 
I've  several  jobs  near  the  Cross,  doan't  ye  see,  and  how's 
he  to  know  that  yours  is  one  o'  them?  Man,  it's  easy  to 
bamboozle  an  ass  like  Gourlay!  Besides,  he'll  think 
my  principals  have  trusted  me  to  let  the  carrying  to 
ainyone  I  like,  and,  as  I  let  it  to  him,  he'll  fancy  I'm  on 
his  side,  doan't  ye  see? — he'll  never  jalouse  that  I  mean 
to  diddle  him.  In  the  meantime  we'll  spread  the  news 
that  you're  meaning  to  build  on  a  big  scale  upon  your 
own  land — we'll  have  the  ground  levelled,  the  foun- 
dations dug,  and  the  drains  and  everything  seen 
to.  Now,  it'll  never  occur  to  Gourlay,  in  the  pres- 
ent slackness  o'  trade,  that  you  would  contract  Avi' 
another  man  to  cart  your  material,  and  go  hunting  for 
other  work  yoursell.  That'll  throw  him  off  the  scent 
till  the  time  comes  to  put  his  nose  on't.  When  the  Com- 
pany advertise  for  estimates  he  canna  compete  wi'  you, 
because  he's  preengaged  to  me,  and  he'll  think  you're 
out  o't,  too,  because  you're  busy  wi'  your  own  woark. 
You'll  be  free  to  nip  the  eight  shillings.  Then  we'll 
force  him  to  fulfill  his  bargain  and  cart  for  us  at  six!  " 
"  If  he  refuses?  "  said  Wilson. 

[134] 


CHAPTER  THIRTEEN 

"  I'll  have  the  contract  stamped  and  signed  in  the 
presence  of  witnesses,"  said  Gibson.  "  Not  that  that's 
necessary,  I  believe,  but  a  double  knot's  aye  the  safest." 

Wilson  looked  at  him  with  admiration. 

"  Gosh,  Mr.  Gibson,"  he  cried,  "  you're  a  warmer! 
Ye  deserve  your  name.     Ye  ken  what  the  folk  ca'  you?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  Gibson  complacently.  "  I'm  quite 
proud  o'  the  description." 

"  I've  my  ain  craw  to  pick  wi'  Gourlay,"  he  went  on. 
"  He  was  damned  ill-bred  yestreen  when  I  asked  him  to 
settle  my  account,  and  talked  about  extortion.  But 
bide  a  wee,  bide  a  wee!  I'll  enjoy  the  look  on  his  face 
when  he  sees  himself  forced  to  carry  for  you,  at  a  rate 
lower  than  the  market  price." 

When  Gibson  approached  Gourlay  on  the  following 
day  he  was  full  of  laments  about  the  poor  state  of  trade. 

"Aye,"  said  he,  "  the  grand  railway  they  boasted  o' 
hasna  done  muckle  for  the  town!  " 

"Atweel  aye,"  quoth  Gourlay  with  pompous  wisdom; 
"  they'll  maybe  find,  or  a's  bye,  that  the  auld  way  wasna 
the  warst  way.  There  was  to  be  a  great  boom,  as  they 
ca't,  but  I  see  few  signs  o't." 

"  I  see  few  signs  o't,  either,"  said  Gibson,  "  it's  the 
slackest  time  for  the  last  twa  years." 

Gourlay  grunted  his  assent. 

"  But  I've  a  grand  job  for  ye,  for  a'  that,"  said  Gib- 
son, slapping  his  hands.  "  What  do  ye  say  to  the  feck 
of  a  year's  carting  tweesht  the  quarry  and  the  town 
foot?" 

"  I  might  consider  that,"  said  Gourlay,  "  if  the  terms 
were  good." 

"  Six  shillins,"  said  Gibson,  and  went  on  in  solemn 

[135] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GREEN  SHUTTERS 

protest:  "  In  the  present  state  o'  trade,  doan't  ye  see,  I 
eouldna  give  a  penny  more."  Gourlay,  who  had  de- 
nounced the  present  state  of  trade  even  now,  was  pre- 
vented by  his  own  words  from  asking  for  a  penny  more. 

"At  the  town  foot,  you  say?  "  he  asked. 

"  I've  several  jobs  thereaway,"  Gibson  explained  hur- 
riedly; "  and  you  must  agree  to  deliver  stuff  ainy  place 
I  want  it  within  four  hundred  yards  o'  the  Cross! — It's 
all  one  to  you,  of  course,"  he  went  on,  "  seeing  you're 
paid  by  the  day." 

"  Oh,  it's  all  one  to  me,"  said  Gourlay. 

Peter  Riney  and  the  new  "  orra  "  man  were  called  in 
to  witness  the  agreement.  Cunning  Johnny  had  made 
it  as  cunning  as  he  could. 

"  We  may  as  well  put  a  stamp  on't,"  said  he.  "A 
stamp  costs  little,  and  means  a  heap." 

"  You're  damned  particular  the  day,"  cried  Gourlay 
in  a  sudden  heat. 

"  Oh,  nothing  more  than  my  usual,  nothing  more 
than  my  usual,"  said  Gibson  blandly. — "  Good  morn- 
ing, Mr.  Gourlay,"  and  he  made  for  the  door,  buttoning 
the  charter  of  his  dear  revenge  in  the  inside  pocket 
of  his  coat.     Gourlay  ignored  him. 

When  Gibson  got  out  he  turned  to  the  House  with  the 
Green  Shutters,  and  "  Curse  you !  "  said  he,  "  you  may 
refuse  to  answer  me  the  day,  but  wait  till  this  day  eight 
weeks.     You'll  be  roaring  than." 

On  that  day  eight  weeks  Gourlay  received  a  letter 
from  Gibson  requiring  him  to  hold  himself  in  readiness 
to  deliver  stone,  lime,  baulks  of  timber,  and  iron  girders 
in  Mr.  Wilson's  holm,  in  terms  of  his  agreement,  and  in 
accordance  with  the  orders  to  be  given  him  from  day  to 

[136] 


CHAPTER  THIETEEN 

day.  He  was  apprised  that  a  couple  of  carts  of  lime  and 
seven  loads  of  stone  were  needed  on  the  morrow. 

He  went  down  the  street  with  grinding  jaws,  the  let- 
ter crushed  to  a  white  pellet  in  his  hand.  It  would  have 
gone  ill  with  Gibson  had  he  met  him.  Gourlay  could 
not  tell  why,  or  to  what  purpose,  he  marched  on  and  on 
with  forward  staring  eyes.  He  only  knew  vaguely  that 
the  anger  drove  him. 

When  he  came  to  the  Cross  a  long  string  of  carts  was 
filing  from  the  Skeighan  Road,  and  passing  across  to 
the  street  leading  Fleckie-ward.  He  knew  them  to  be 
Wilson's.  The  Deacon  was  there  of  course,  hobbling 
on  his  thin  shanks,  and  cocking  his  eye  to  see  every- 
thing that  happened. 

"  What  does  this  mean?  "  Gourlay  asked  him,  though 
he  loathed  the  Deacon. 

"  Oh,  haven't  ye  heard?  "  quoth  the  Deacon  blithely. 
"  That's  the  stuff  for  the  new  mining  village  out  the 
Fleckie  Eoad.  Wilson  has  nabbed  the  contract  for  the 
carting.  They're  saying  it  was  Gibson's  influence  wi' 
Goudie  that  helped  him  to  the  getting  o't!  " 

Amid  his  storm  of  anger  at  the  trick,  Gourlay  was 
conscious  of  a  sudden  pity  for  himself,  as  for  a  man  most 
unfairly  worsted.  He  realized  for  a  moment  his  own 
inefficiency  as  a  business  man,  in  conflict  with  cleverer 
rivals,  and  felt  sorry  to  be  thus  handicapped  by  nature. 
Though  wrath  was  uppermost,  the  other  feeling  was  re- 
vealed, shewing  itself  by  a  gulping  in  the  throat  and  a 
rapid  blinking  of  the  eyes.  The  Deacon  marked  the 
signs  of  his  chagrin. 

"  Man!  "  he  reported  to  the  bodies,  "  but  Gourlay  was 
cut  to  the  quick.     His  face  shewed  how  gunkit  he  was. 

[  137  ] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GEEEN  SHUTTERS 

Oh,  but  he  was  chawed.     I  saw  his  breist  give  the  great 
heave." 

"  Were  ye  no  sorry?  "  cried  the  baker. 

"Thorry,  hi!"  laughed  the  Deacon.  "Oh,  I  was 
thorry,  to  be  sure,"  he  lisped,  "  bvit  I  didna  thyow't. 
I'm  glad  to  thay  I've  a  grand  control  of  my  emotionth. 
ISTot  like  thum  folk  we  know  of,"  he  added  slily,  giving 
the  baker  a  "  good  one." 

All  next  day  Gibson's  masons  waited  for  their  build- 
ing material  in  Wilson's  holm.  But  none  came.  And 
all  day  seven  of  Gourlay's  horses  chaniiDed  idly  in  their 
stalls. 

Barbie  had  a  weekly  market  now,  and,  as  it  happened, 
that  was  the  day  it  fell  on.  At  two  in  the  afternoon 
Gourlay  was  standing  on  the  gravel  outside  the  Eed 
Lion,  trying  to  look  wise  over  a  sample  of  grain  which 
a  farmer  had  poured  upon  his  great  palm.  Gibson  ap- 
proached with  false  voice  and  smile. 

"  Gosh,  Mr.  Gourlay!  "  he  cried  protestingly;  "  have 
ye  forgotten  whatna  day  it  is?  Ye  havena  gi'en  my 
men  a  ton  o'  stuff  to  gang  on  wi'!  " 

To  the  farmer's  dismay  his  fine  sample  of  grain  was 
scattered  on  the  gravel  by  a  convulsive  movement  of 
Gourlay's  arm.  As  Gourlay  turned  on  his  enemy,  his 
face  was  frightfully  distorted;  all  his  brow  seemed  gath- 
ered in  a  knot  above  his  nose,  and  he  gaped  on  his  words, 
yet  ground  them  out  like  a  labouring  mill,  each  word 
solid  as  plug  shot. 

"I'll  see  Wil-son  ....  and  Gib-son  ....  and 
every  otlier  man's  son  ...  .  frying  in  hell,"  he  said 
slowly,  "  ere  a  horse  o'  mine  draws  a  stane  o'  Wilson's 
property.     Be  damned  to  ye,  but  there's  your  answer!  " 

[138] 


CHAPTER  THIRTEEK 

Gibson's  cunning  deserted  him  for  once.  He  put  his 
hand  on  Gourlay's  shoulder  in  pretended  friendly  re- 
monstrance. 

"  Take  your  hand  off  my  shouther!  "  said  Gourlay 
in  a  voice  the  tense  quietness  of  which  should  have 
warned  Gibson  to  forbear. 

But  he  actually  shook  Gourlay  with  a  feigned  play- 
fulness. 

Next  instant  he  was  high  in  air;  for  a  moment  the 
hobnails  in  the  soles  of  his  boots  gleamed  vivid  to  tlie 
sun;  then  Gourlay  sent  him  flying  through  the  big  win- 
dow of  the  Red  Lion,  right  on  to  the  middle  of  the 
great  table  where  the  market-folk  were  drinking. 

For  a  minute  he  lay  stunned  and  bleeding  among  the 
broken  crockery,  in  a  circle  of  white  faces  and  startled 
cries. 

Gourlay's  face  appeared  at  the  jagged  rent,  his  eyes 
narrowed  to  fiercely  gleaming  points,  a  hard,  triumphant 
devilry  playing  round  his  black  lips.  "  You  damned 
treacherous  rat! "  he  cried,  "  that's  the  game  John 
Gourla  can  play  wi'  a  thing  like  you." 

Gibson  rose  from  the  ruin  on  the  table  and  came 
bleeding  to  the  window,  his  grin  a  rictus  of  wrath,  his 
green  teeth  wolfish  with  anger. 

"  By  God,  Gourlay,"  he  screamed,  "  I'll  make  you  pay 
for  this;  I'll  fight  you  through  a'  the  law  courts  in  Bree- 
tain,  but  you'll  implement  your  bond." 

"  Damn  you  for  a  measled  swine,  would  you  grunt  at 
me,"  cried  Gourlay,  and  made  to  go  at  him  through  the 
window.  Though  he  could  not  reach  him  Gibson 
quailed  at  his  look.  He  shook  his  fist  in  impotent  wrath, 
and  spat  threats  of  justice  through  his  green  teeth. 

[139] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GKEEN  SHUTTERS 

"  To  hell  wi'  your  law-wers!  "  cried  Gourlay,  "  I'd 
throttle  ye  like  the  dog  you  are  on  the  floor  o'  the  House 
o'  Lords." 

But  that  day  was  to  cost  him  dear.  Ere  six  months 
passed  he  was  cast  in  damages  and  costs  for  a  breach  of 
contract  aggravated  by  assault.  He  appealed,  of  course. 
He  was  not  to  be  done;  he  would  shew  the  dogs  what  he 
thought  of  them. 


[140] 


XIV 

In  those  days  it  came  to  pass  that  Wilson  sent  his  son 
to  the  High  School  of  Skeighan,  even  James,  the  red- 
haired  one,  with  the  squint  in  his  eye.  Whereupon 
Gourlay  sent  his  son  to  the  High  School  of  Skeighan, 
too,  of  course,  to  be  upsides  with  Wilson.  If  Wilson 
could  afford  to  send  his  boy  to  a  distant  and  expensive 
school,  then,  by  the  Lord,  so  could  he !  And  it  also  came 
to  pass  that  James,  the  son  of  James,  the  grocer,  took 
many  prizes.  But  John,  the  son  of  John,  took  no  prizes. 
Whereat  there  were  ructions  in  the  House  of  Gourlay. 

Gourlay's  resolve  to  be  equal  to  Wilson  in  everything 
he  did  was  his  main  reason  for  sending  his  son  to  the 
High  School  of  Skeighan.  That  he  saw  his  business 
decreasing  daily  was  a  reason,  too.  Young  Gourlay  was 
a  lad  of  fifteen  now,  undersized  for  his  age  at  that  time, 
though  he  soon  shot  up  to  be  a  swaggering  youngster. 
He  had  been  looking  forward  with  delight  to  helping  his 
father  in  the  business — how  grand  it  would  be  to  drive 
about  the  country  and  see  things! — and  he  had  irked  at 
being  kept  for  so  long  under  the  tawse  of  old  Bleach- 
the-boys.  But  if  the  business  went  on  at  this  rate  there 
would  be  little  in  it  for  the  boy.  Gourlay  was  not  with- 
out a  thought  of  his  son's  welfare  when  he  packed  him 
off  to  Skeighan.  He  would  give  him  some  book-lear, 
he  said;  let  him  make  a  kirk  or  a  mill  o't. 

But  John  shrank,  chicken-hearted,  from  the  prospect. 

[141] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GKEEN  SHUTTERS 

■\Vas  he  still  to  drudge  at  books?  Was  he  to  go  out 
among  strangers  whom  he  feared?  His  imagination 
set  to  work  on  what  he  heard  of  the  High  School  of 
Skeighan  and  made  it  a  bugbear.  They  had  to  do 
mathematics — what  could  he  do  wi'  thae  whigmaleeries? 
They  had  to  recite  Shakespeare  in  public — how  could 
he  stand  up  and  spout,  before  a  whole  jing-bang  o'  them? 

"  I  don't  want  to  gang,"  he  whined. 

"  Want?  "  flamed  his  father.  "  What  does  it  matter 
what  you  want?     Go  you  shall." 

"  I  thocht  I  was  to  help  in  the  business,"  whimpered 
John. 

"  Business!  "  sneered  his  father.  "  A  fine  help  you 
would  be  in  business." 

"  Aye  man,  Johnnie,"  said  his  mother,  maternal  fond- 
ness coming  out  in  support  of  her  husband,  "  you 
should  be  glad  your  father  can  allow  ye  the  oppor- 
tunity. Eh,  but  it's  a  grand  thing,  a  gude  education! 
Yoii  may  rise  to  be  a  minister." 

Her  ambition  could  no  further  go.  But  Gourlay 
seemed  to  have  formed  a  different  opinion  of  the  sacred 
calling.     "  It's  a'  he's  fit  for,"  he  growled. 

So  John  was  put  to  the  High  School  of  Skeighan, 
travelling  backwards  and  forwards  night  and  morning 
by  the  train,  after  the  railway  had  been  opened.  And 
he  discovered,  on  trying  it,  that  the  life  was  not  so  bad 
as  he  had  feared.  He  hated  his  lessons,  true,  and  avoid- 
ed them  whenever  he  was  able.  But  his  father's  pride 
and  his  mother's  fondness  saw  that  he  was  well-dressed 
and  with  money  in  his  pocket;  and  he  began  to  grow  im- 
portant. Though  Gourlay  was  no  longer  the  only  "  big 
man  "  of  Barbie,  he  was  still  one  of  the  "  big  men,"  and 

[142] 


CHAPTER  FOURTEEN 

a  consciousness  of  the  fact  grew  upon  his  son.  When 
he  passed  his  old  classmates  (apprentice-grocers  now 
and  carters  and  ploughboys)  his  febrile  insolence  led 
him  to  swagger  and  assume.  And  it  was  fine  to  mount 
the  train  at  Barbie  on  the  fresh  cool  mornings,  and  be 
off  past  the  gleaming  rivers  and  the  woods.  Better  still 
was  the  home-coming — to  board  the  empty  train  at  Skei- 
ghan  when  the  afternoon  sun  came  pleasant  through  the 
windows,  to  loll  on  the  fat  cushions,  and  read  the  novel- 
ettes. He  learned  to  smoke  too,  and  that  was  a  source 
of  pride.  When  the  train  was  full  on  market  days  he 
liked  to  get  in  among  the  jovial  farmers  who  encouraged 
his  assumptions.  Meanwhile  Jimmy  Wilson  would  be 
elsewhere  in  the  train,  busy  with  his  lessons  for  the  mor- 
row— for  Jimmy  had  to  help  in  the  Emporium  of  nights 
— his  father  kept  him  to  the  grindstone.  Jimmy  had  no 
more  real  ability  than  young  Gourlay,  but  infinitely 
more  caution.  He  was  one  of  the  gimlet  characters 
who,  by  diligence  and  memory,  gain  prizes  in  their 
schooldays — and  are  fools  for  the  remainder  of  their 
lives. 

The  bodies  of  Barbie,  seeing  young  Gourlay  at  his 
pranks,  speculated  over  his  future,  as  Scotch  bodies  do 
about  the  future  of  every  youngster  in  their  ken. 

"  I  wonder  what  that  son  o'  Gourlay's  'ull  come  till," 
said  Sandy  Toddle,  musing  on  him  with  the  character- 
reading  eye  of  the  Scots  peasant. 

"  To  no  good — ^you  may  be  sure  of  that,"  said  ex- 
Provost  Connal.  "He's  a  regular  splurge!  When 
Drunk  Dan  Kennedy  passed  him  his  flask  in  the  train 
the  other  day  he  swigged  it,  just  for  the  sake  of  showing 
off!     And  he's  a  coward,  too,  for  all  his  swagger.     He 

[143] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GREEN  SHUTTERS 

grew  ill-bred  when  he  swallowed  the  drink,  and  Dan, 
to  frighten  him,  threatened  to  hang  him  from  the  win- 
dow by  the  heels!  He  didn't  mean  it,  to  be  sure;  but 
young  Gourlay  grew  white  at  the  very  idea  o't — he  shook 
like  a  dog  in  a  wet  sack.  '  Oh! '  he  cried,  shivering, 
'  liow  the  ground  would  go  flying  past  your  eyes;  how 
quick  the  wheel  opposite  ye  would  buzz — it  would  blind 
ye  by  its  quickness — how  the  grey  slag  would  flash  be- 
low ye! '  Those  were  his  very  words.  He  seemed  to 
see  the  thing  as  if  it  Avere  happening  before  his  eyes,  and 
stared  like  a  fellow  in  hysteerics,  till  Dan  was  obliged 
to  give  him  another  drink!  '  You  would  spue  with 
the  dizziness,'  said  he,  and  he  actually  hocked  him- 
sell." 

Young  Gourlay  seemed  bent  on  making  good  the 
prophecy  of  Barbie.  Though  his  father  was  spending 
money  he  could  ill  afford  on  his  education,  he  fooled 
away  his  time.  His  mind  developed  a  little,  no  doubt, 
since  it  was  no  longer  dazed  by  brutal  and  repeated 
floggings.  In  some  of  his  classes  he  did  fairly  well. 
But  others  he  loathed.  It  was  the  rule  at  Skeighan 
High  School  to  change  rooms  every  hour,  the  classes 
tramping  from  one  to  another  through  a  big  lobby. 
Gourlay  got  a  habit  of  stealing  ofl'  at  such  times — it  was 
easy  to  slip  out — and  playing  truant  in  the  bye-ways  of 
Skeighan.  He  often  made  his  way  to  the  station,  and 
loafed  in  the  waiting  room.  He  had  gone  there  on  a 
summer  afternoon,  to  avoid  his  mathematics  and  read 
a  novel,  when  a  terrible  thing  befell  him. 

For  a  while  he  swaggered  round  the  empty  platform 
and  smoked  a  cigarette.  Milk-cans  clanked  in  a  shed, 
mournfully.     Gourlay  had  a  congenital  horror  of  eerie 

[144] 


CHAPTER   FOUKTEEN 

sounds — he  Avas  his  mother's  son  for  that — and  he  fled 
to  the  waiting  room,  to  avoid  the  hollow  clang.  It  was 
a  June  afternoon,  of  brooding  heat,  and  a  band  of  yellow 
sunshine  was  lying  on  the  glazed  table,  showing  every 
scratch  in  its  surface.  The  place  oppressed  hun — he 
was  sorry  he  had  come.  But  he  plunged  into  his  novel 
and  forgot  the  world. 

He  started  in  fear  when  a  voice  addressed  him.  He 
looked  up — and  here  it  was  only  the  baker! — the  baker 
smiling  at  him  with  his  fine  grey  eyes,  the  baker  with 
his  reddish  fringe  of  beard  and  his  honest  grin,  which 
wrinkled  up  his  face  to  his  eyes  in  merry  and  kindly 
wrinkles.  He  had  a  wonderful  hearty  manner  with 
a  boy. 

"  Aye  man,  John;  it's  you,  said  the  baker.  "  Dod, 
I'm  just  in  time.     The  storm's  at  the  burstin!  " 

"  Storm!  "  said  Gourlay.  He  had  a  horror  of  light- 
ning since  the  day  of  his  birth. 

"  Aye,  we're  in  for  a  pelter.  What  have  you  been 
doing  that  you  didna  see't?  " 

They  went  to  the  window.  The  fronting  heavens 
were  a  black  purple.  The  thunder,  which  had  been 
growling  in  the  distance,  swept  forward  and  roared 
above  the  town.  The  crash  no  longer  rolled  afar,  but 
cracked  close  to  the  ear,  hard,  crepitant.  Quick  light- 
ning stabbed  the  world  in  vicious  and  repeated  hate. 
A  blue-black  moistness  lay  heavy  on  the  cowering  earth. 
The  rain  came — a  few  drops  at  first,  sullen,  as  if  loth 
to  come,  that  splashed  on  the  pavement  wide  as  a 
crown-piece — then  a  white  rush  of  slanting  spears.  A 
great  blob  shot  in  through  the  window,  open  at  the  top, 
and  spat  wide  on  Gourlay's  cheek.     It  was  lukewarm. 

[145] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GKEEN  SHUTTERS 

He  started  violently — that  warmth  on  his  cheek  brought 
the  terror  so  near. 

The  heavens  were  rent  with  a  crash  and  the  earth 
seemed  on  fire.     Gourlay  screamed  in  terror. 

The  baker  put  his  arm  round  him  in  kindly  protec- 
tion. 

"  Tuts,  man,  dinna  be  feared,"  he  said.  "  You're 
John  Gourlay's  son,  ye  know.  You  ought  to  be  a 
hardy  man." 

"  Aye,  but  I'm  no,"  chattered  John,  the  truth  coming 
out  in  his  fear.     "  I  just  let  on  to  be." 

But  the  worst  was  soon  over.  Lightning,  both  sheet- 
ed and  forked,  was  vivid  as  ever,  but  the  thunder  slunk 
growling  away. 

"  The  heavens  are  opening  and  shutting  like  a  man's 
eye,"  said  Gourlay;  "  oh,  it's  a  terrible  thing  the 
world — "  and  he  covered  his  face  with  his  hands. 

A  flash  shot  into  a  mounded  wood  far  away.  "  It 
stabbed  it  like  a  dagger!  "  stared  Gourlay. 

"Look,  look,  did  ye  see  yon?  It  came  down  in  a 
broad  flash — then  jerked  to  the  side — then  ran  down  to 
a  sharp  point  again.  It  was  like  the  coulter  of  a 
plough." 

Suddenly  a  blaze  of  lightning  flamed  wide,  and  a  fork 
shot  down  its  centre. 

"  That,"  said  Gourlay,  "  was  like  a  red  crack  in  a 
white-hot  furnace  door." 

"  Man,  you're  a  noticing  boy,"  said  the  baker. 

"Aye,"  said  John,  smiling  in  curious  self-interest,  "  I 
notice  things  too  much.  They  give  me  pictures  in  my 
mind.  I'm  feared  of  them,  but  I  like  to  think  them 
over  when  they're  bye." 

[146] 


CHAPTER  FOURTEEN 

Boys  are  slow  of  confidence  to  their  elders,  but  Gour- 
lay's  terror  and  the  baker's  kindness  moved  him  to  speak. 
In  a  vague  way  he  wanted  to  explain. 

"  I'm  no  feared  of  folk,"  he  went  on,  wdth  a  faint 
return  to  his  swagger.  "  But  things  get  in  on  me.  A 
body  seems  so  wee  compared  with  that — "  he  nodded  to 
the  warring  heavens. 

The  baker  did  not  understand.  "  Have  you  seen  your 
faither?  "  he  asked. 

"  My  faither!  "  John  gasped  in  terror.  If  his  father 
should  find  him  playing  truant! 

"  Yes;  did  ye  no  ken  he  was  in  Skeighan?  We  come 
up  thegither  by  the  ten  train,  and  are  meaning  to  gang 
hame  by  this.     I  expect  him  every  moment." 

John  turned  to  escape.  In  the  doorway  stood  his 
father. 

When  Gourlay  was  in  wrath  he  had  a  widening  glower 
that  enveloped  the  offender — yet  his  eye  seemed  to  stab 
— a  flash  shot  from  its  centre  to  transfix  and  pierce. 
Gaze  at  a  tiger  through  the  bars  of  his  cage,  and  you  will 
see  the  look.     It  widens  and  concentrates  at  once. 

"  What  are  you  doing  here?  "  he  asked,  with  the  wild- 
beast  glower  on  his  son. 

"  I — I — I,"  John  stammered  and  choked. 

"  What  are  you  doing  here?  "  said  his  father. 

John's  fingers  worked  before  him;  his  eyes  were  large 
and  aghast  on  his  father;  though  his  mouth  hung  open 
no  words  would  come. 

"  How  lang  has  he  been  here,  baker?  " 

There  was  a  curious  regard  between  Gourlay  and  the 
baker.     Gourlay  spoke  with  a  firm  civility. 

"  Oh,  just  a  wee  whilie,"  said  the  baker. 

[147] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GEEEN  SHUTTERS 

"I  see!  You  want  to  shield  him. — You  have  been 
playing  the  truant,  have  'ee?  Am  I  to  throw  away 
gude  money  on  you  for  this  to  be  the  end  o't?  " 

"  Dinna  be  hard  on  him,  John,"  pleaded  the  baker. 
"  A  boy's  but  a  boy.     Dinna  thrash  him." 

"  Me  thrash  him!  "  cried  Gourlay.  "  I  pay  the  High 
School  of  Skeighan  to  thrash  him,  and  I'll  take  damned 
good  care  I  get  my  money's  worth.  I  don't  mean  to 
hire  dowgs  and  bark  for  my  sell!  " 

He  grabbed  his  son  by  the  coat-collar  and  swung  him 
out  the  room.  Down  High  Street  he  marched,  carrying 
his  cub  by  the  scruff  of  the  neck  as  you  might  carry  a 
dirty  puppy  to  an  outhouse.  John  was  black  in  the 
face;  time  and  again  in  his  wrath  Gourlay  swung  him  off 
the  ground.  Grocers  coming  to  their  doors,  to  scatter 
fresh  yellow  sawdust  on  the  old,  now  trampled  black 
and  wet  on  the  sills,  stared  sideways,  chins  up  and 
mouths  open,  after  the  strange  spectacle.  But  Gourlay 
splashed  on  amid  the  staring  crowd,  never  looking  to 
the  right  or  left. 

Opposite  The  Fiddler's  Inn  whom  should  they  meet 
but  Wilson!  A  snigger  shot  to  his  features  at  the  sight. 
Gourlay  swung  the  boy  up — for  a  moment  a  wild  im- 
pulse surged  within  him  to  club  his  rival  with  his 
own  son. 

He  marched  into  the  vestibule  of  the  High  School, 
the  boy  dangling  from  his  great  hand. 

"  Where's  your  gaffer?  "  lie  roared  at  the  janitor. 

"  Gaffer?  "  blinked  the  janitor. 

"  Gaffer,  dominie,  whatever  the  damn  you  ca'  him, 
the  fellow  that  runs  the  business." 

"The  Headmaster!"  said  the  janitor. 

[148] 


CHAPTEE  FOURTEEN 

"  Heid-maister,  aye!"  said  Gourlay  in  scorn,  and 
went  trampling  after  the  janitor  down  a  long  wooden 
corridor.  A  door  was  flung  open  showing  a  class-room 
where  the  Headmaster  was  seated  teaching  Greek. 

The  sudden  appearance  of  the  great-chested  figure  in 
the  door,  with  his  fierce  gleaming  eyes,  and  the  rain- 
beads  shining  on  his  frieze  coat,  brought  into  the  close 
academic  air  the  sharp  strong  gust  of  an  outer  world. 

"  I  believe  I  pay  you  to  look  after  that  boy,"  thun- 
dered Gourlay;  "  is  this  the  way  you  do  your  work?  " 
And  with  the  word  he  sent  his  son  spinning  along  the 
floor  like  a  curling-stone,  till  he  rattled,  a  wet  huddled 
lump,  against  a  row  of  chairs.  John  slunk  bleeding 
behind  the  master. 

"Eeally!"  said  MacCandlish,  rising  in  protest. 

"  Don't '  really  '  me,  sir!  I  pay  ijou  to  teach  that  boy, 
and  you  allow  him  to  run  idle  in  the  streets!  What  have 
you  to  sell  ?  " 

"  But  what  can  I  do  ?  "  bleated  MacCandlish,  with  a 
white  spread  of  deprecating  hands.  The  stronger  man 
took  the  grit  from  his  limbs. 

"  Do  ?  Do  ?  Damn  it,  sir,  am  I  to  be  your  dominie  ? 
Am  I  to  teach  you  your  duty?  Do!  Flog  him,  flog 
him,  flog  him — if  you  don't  send  him  hame  wi'  the  welts 
on  him  as  thick  as  that  forefinger,  I'll  have  a  word  to 
say  to  you-ou,  Misterr  MacCandlish!  " 

He  was  gone — they  heard  him  go  clumping  along  the 
corridor. 

Thereafter  young  Gourlay  had  to  stick  to  his  books. 
And,  as  we  know,  the  forced  union  of  opposites  breeds 
the  greater  disgust  between  them.  However,  his  school- 
days would  soon  be  over,  and  meanwhile  it  was  fine  to 

[149] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GKEEK  SHUTTERS 

pose  on  his  journeys  to  and  fro  as  Young  Hopeful  of 
the  Green  Shutters. 

He  was  smoking  at  Skeighan  Station  on  an  afternoon, 
as  the  Barbie  train  was  on  the  point  of  starting.  He  was 
staying  on  the  platform  till  the  last  moment,  in  order 
to  shew  the  people  how  nicely  he  could  bring  the  smoke 
down  his  nostrils — his  "  Prince  of  Wales's  feathers  "  he 
called  the  great  curling  puffs.  As  he  dallied,  a  little 
aback  from  an  open  window,  he  heard  a  voice  which  he 
knew  mentioning  the  Gourlays.  It  was  Templandmuir 
who  was  speaking. 

"  I  see  that  Gourlay  has  lost  his  final  appeal  in  that 
law-suit  of  his,"  said  the  Templar. 

"  D'ye  tell  me  that?  "  said  a  strange  voice.  Then — 
"  Gosh,  he  must  have  lost  infernal!  " 

"Atweel  has  he  that,"  said  Templandmuir.  "  The 
costs  must  have  been  enormous,  and  then  there's  the 
damages.  He  would  have  been  better  to  settle't  and  be 
done  wi't,  but  his  pride  made  him  fight  it  to  the  hind- 
most! It  has  made  touch  the  boddom  of  his  purse,  I'll 
wager  ye.  Weel,  weel,  it'll  help  to  subdue  his  pride  a 
bit,  and  muckle  was  the  need  o'  that." 

Young  Gourlay  was  seized  with  a  sudden  fear.  The 
prosperity  of  the  House  with  the  Green  Shutters  had 
been  a  fact  of  his  existence;  it  had  never  entered  his 
boyish  mind  to  question  its  continuance.  But  a  weaken- 
ing doubt  stole  through  his  limbs.  What  would  become 
of  him,  if  the  Gourlays  were  threatened  with  disaster? 
He  had  a  terrifying  vision  of  himself  as  a  lonely  atomy, 
adrift  on  a  tossing  world,  cut  off  from  his  anchorage. 

"  Mother,  are  we  ever  likely  to  be  ill  off?  "  he  asked 
his  mother  that  evening. 

[150] 


CHAPTER  FOUETEEN 

She  ran  her  fingers  through  his  hair,  pushing  it  back 
from  his  brow  fondly.     He  was  as  tall  as  herself  now. 

"No,  no,  dear;  what  makes  ye  think  that?  Your 
father  has  always  had  a  grand  business,  and  I  brought 
a  hantle  money  to  the  house.'' 

"  Hokey!  "  said  the  youth,  "  when  Ah'm  in  the  busi- 
ness, Ah'll  have  the  times! " 


[151] 


XV 

GouRLAY  was  hard  up  for  money.  Every  day  of  his 
life  taught  him  that  he  was  nowhere  in  the  stress  of 
modern  competition.  The  grand  days — only  a  few  years 
back,  hut  seeming  half  a  century  away,  so  much  had 
happened  in  between — the  grand  days  when  he  was  the 
only  big  man  in  the  locality,  and  carried  everything 
with  a  high  hand,  had  disappeared  for  ever.  Now  all 
was  bustle,  hurry,  and  confusion,  the  getting  and  send- 
ing of  telegrams,  quick  despatches  by  railway,  the 
watching  of  markets  at  a  distance,  rapid  combinations 
that  bewildered  Gourlay's  duller  mind.  At  first  he  was 
too  obstinate  to  try  the  newer  methods;  when  he  did,  he 
was  too  stupid  to  use  them  cleverly.  When  he  plunged 
it  was  always  at  the  wrong  time,  for  he  plunged  at  ran- 
dom, not  knowing  what  to  do.  He  had  lost  heavily  of 
late  both  in  grain  and  cheese,  and  the  law-suit  with  Gib- 
son had  crippled  him.  It  was  well  for  him  that  prop- 
erty in  Barbie  had  increased  in  value;  the  House  with 
the  Green  Shutters  was  to  prove  the  buttress  of  his  for- 
tune. Already  he  had  borrowed  considerably  upon  that 
security.  He  was  now  dressing  to  go  to  Skeighan  and 
get  more. 

"  Brodie,  Gurney,  and  Yarrowby,"  of  Glasgow  were 
the  lawyers  who  financed  him,  and  he  had  to  sign  some 
papers  at  Goudie's  office  ere  he  touched  the  cash. 

He  was  meaning  to  drive  of  course;  Gourlay  was 

[152] 


CHAPTER   FIFTEEN 

proud  of  his  gig,  and  always  kept  a  spanking  roadster. 
"  What  a  fine  figure  of  a  man!  "  you  thought,  as  you  saw 
him  coming  swiftly  towards  you,  seated  high  on  his 
driving  cushion.  That  driving  cushion  was  Gourlay's 
pedestal  from  which  he  looked  down  on  Barbie  for  many 
a  day. 

A  quick  step,  yet  shambling,  came  along  the  lobby. 
There  was  a  pause,  as  of  one  gathering  heart  for  a  ven- 
ture; then  a  clumsy  knock  on  the  door. 

"  Come  in,"  snapped  Gourlay. 

Peter  Einey's  queer  little  old  face  edged  timorously 
into  the  room.  He  only  opened  the  door  the  width  of 
his  face,  and  looked  ready  to  bolt  at  a  word. 

"  Tarn's  deid!  "  he  blurted. 

Gourlay  gashed  himself  frightfully  with  his  razor,  and 
a  big  red  blob  stood  out  or  his  cheek. 

'^  Deid!  "he  stared. 

"  Yes,"  stammered  Peter.  "  He  was  right  enough 
when  Elshie  gae  him  his  feed  this  morning,  but  when  I 
went  in  enow,  to  put  the  harness  on,  he  was  lying  deid 
in  the  loose-box.     The  batts — it's  like." 

For  a  moment  Gourlay  stared  with  the  open  mouth  of 
an  angry  surprise,  forgetting  to  take  down  his  razor. 

"Aweel,  Peter,"  he  said  at  last,  and  Peter  went  away. 

The  loss  of  his  pony  touched  Gourlay  to  the  quick. 
He  had  been  stolid  and  dour  in  his  other  misfortunes, 
had  taken  them  as  they  came,  calmly;  he  was  not  the 
man  to  whine  and  cry  out  against  the  angry  heavens. 
He  had  neither  the  weakness,  nor  the  width  of  nature, 
to  indulge  in  the  luxury  of  self-pity.  But  the  sudden 
death  of  his  gallant  roadster,  his  proud  pacer  through 
the  streets  of  Barbie,  touched  him  with  a  sense  of  quite 

[153] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GREEN  SHUTTEES 

personal  loss  and  bereavement.  Coming  on  the  heels  of 
his  other  calamities  it  seemed  to  make  them  more  poig- 
nant, more  sinister,  prompting  the  question  if  misfor- 
tune would  never  have  an  end. 

"  Damn  it,  I  have  enough  to  thole,"  Gourlay  mut- 
tered; "  surely  there  was  no  need  for  this  to  happen." 
And  when  he  looked  in  the  mirror  to  fasten  his  stock, 
and  saw  the  dark  strong  clean-shaven  face,  he  stared  at 
it  for  a  moment,  with  a  curious  compassion  for  the  man 
before  him,  as  for  one  who  was  being  hardly  used.  The 
hard  lips  could  never  have  framed  the  words,  but  the 
vague  feeling  in  his  heart,  as  he  looked  at  the  dark  vi- 
sion, was:  "  It's  a  pity  of  you,  sir." 

He  put  on  his  coat  rapidly,  and  went  out  to  the  stable. 
An  instinct  prompted  him  to  lock  the  door. 

He  entered  the  loose-box.  A  shaft  of  golden  light, 
aswarm  with  motes,  slanted  in  the  quietness.  Tam 
lay  on  the  straw,  his  head  far  out,  his  neck  unnat- 
urally long,  his  limbs  sprawling,  rigid.  What  a 
spanker  Tam  had  been!  What  gallant  drives  they  had 
had  together!  When  he  first  put  Tam  between  the 
shafts  five  years  ago,  he  l^ad  been  driving  his  world 
before  him,  plenty  of  cash  and  a  big  way  of  doing.— 
Now  Tam  was  dead,  and  his  master  netted  in  a  mesh 
of  care. 

"  I  was  always  gudo  to  the  beasts  at  any  rate,"  Gour- 
lay muttered,  as  if  pleading  in  his  own  defence. 

For  a  long  time  he  stared  down  at  the  sprawling  car- 
cass, musing.  "  Tam  the  powney,"  he  said  twice,  nod- 
ding his  head  each  time  he  said  it;  "  Tam  the  powney  "; 
and  he  turned  away. 

How  was  he  to  get  to  Skeighan?     He  plunged  at  his 

[154] 


CHAPTER  FIFTEEN 

watch.  The  ten  o'clock  train  had  already  gone,  the  ex- 
press did  not  stop  at  Barbie;  if  he  waited  till  one  o'clock 
he  would  be  late  for  his  appointment.  There  was  a 
brake,  true,  which  ran  to  Skeighan  every  Tuesday.  It 
was  a  downcome,  though,  for  a  man  who  had  been  proud 
of  driving  behind  his  own  horseflesh  to  pack  in  among 
a  crowd  of  the  Barbie  sprats.  And  if  he  went  by  the 
brake,  he  would  be  sure  to  rub  shoulders  with  his  stingr 
ing  and  detested  foes.  It  was  a  fine  day;  like  enougli 
the  whole  jing-bang  of  them  would  be  going  with  the 
brake  to  Skeighan.  Gourlay,  who  shrank  from  nothing, 
shrank  from  the  winks  that  would  be  sure  to  pass  when 
they  saw  him,  the  haughty,  the  aloof,  forced  to  creep 
among  them  cheek  for  jowl.  Then  his  angry  pride 
rushed  towering  to  his  aid.  Was  John  Gourlay  to  turn 
tail  for  a  wheen  o'  the  Barbie  dirt?  Damn  the  fear  o't! 
It  was  a  public  conveyance;  he  had  the  same  right  to  use 
it  as  the  re.st  o'  folk! 

The  place  of  departure  for  the  brake  was  the  "  Black 
Bull,"  at  the  Cross,  nearly  opposite  to  Wilson's.  There 
were  winks  and  stares  and  elbow-nudgings  when  the  folk 
hanging  round  saw  Gourlay  coming  forward;  but  he 
paid  no  heed.  Gourlay,  in  spite  of  his  mad  violence 
when  roused,  was  a  man  at  all  other  times  of  a  grave  and 
orderly  demeanour.  He  never  splurged.  Even  his 
bluster  was  not  bluster,  for  he  never  threatened  the 
thing  which  he  had  not  it  in  him  to  do.  He  walked 
quietly  into  the  empty  brake,  and  took  his  seat  in  the 
right-hand  corner,  at  the  top,  close  below  the  driver. 

As  he  had  expected,  the  Barbie  bodies  had  mustered 
in  strength  for  Skeighan.  In  a  country  brake  it  is  the 
privilege  of  the  important  men  to  mount  beside  the 

[155] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GEEEN  SHUTTEKS 

driver,  in  order  to  take  the  air  and  show  themselves  off 
to  an  admiring  world.  On  the  dickey  were  ex-Provost 
Connal  and  Sandy  Toddle,  and  between  them  the  Dea- 
con, tightly  wedged.  The  Deacon  was  so  thin  (the 
bodie)  that  though  he  was  wedged  closely,  he  could 
turn  and  address  him-self  to  Tarn  Brodie,  who  was 
seated  next  the  door. 

The  fun  began  when  the  horses  were  crawling  up  the 
first  brae. 

The  Deacon  turned  with  a  wink  to  Brodie,  and  drop- 
ping a  glance  on  the  crown  of  Gourlay's  hat,  "  Tum- 
muth  "  he  lisped,  "  what  a  dirty  place  that  ith!  "  point- 
ing to  a  hovel  by  the  wayside. 

Brodie  took  the  cue  at  once.  His  big  face  flushed 
with  a  malicious  grin.  "Aye,''  he  bellowed,  "  the  owner 
o'  that  maun  be  married  to  a  dirty  wife,  I'm  thinking!  " 

"  It  must  be  terrible,"  said  the  Deacon,  "  to  be  mar- 
ried to  a  dirty  trollop." 

"  Terrible,"  laughed  Brodie;  "  it's  enough  to  give  ainy 
man  a  gurly  temper." 

They  had  Gourlay  on  the  hip  at  last.  More  than  ar- 
rogance had  kept  him  off  from  the  bodies  of  the  town; 
a  consciousness  also,  that  he  was  not  their  match  in  ma- 
licious innuendo.  The  direct  attack  he  could  meet 
superbly,  downing  his  opponent  with  a  coarse  birr  of  the 
tongue;  to  the  veiled  gibe  he  was  a  quivering  hulk,  to 
be  prodded  at  your  ease.  And  now  the  malignants  were 
around  him  (while  he  could  not  get  away);  talking  to 
each  other,  indeed,  but  at  him,  while  he  must  keep 
quiet  in  their  midst. 

At  every  brae  they  came  to  (and  there  were  many 
braes)  the  bodies  played  their  malicious  o:ame,  shout- 

[  156  ] 


CHAPTER   FIFTEEN      - 

ing  remarks  along  the  brake,  to  each  other's  ears,  to  his 
comprehension. 

The  new  house  of  Templandmuir  was  seen  above 
the  trees. 

"  What  a  splendid  house  Templandmuir  has  built! " 
cried  the  ex-Provost. 

"  Splendid!  "  echoed  Brodie.  "  But  a  laird  like  the 
Templar  has  a  right  to  a  fine  mansion  such  as  that! 
He's  no'  like  some  merchants  we  ken  o'  who  throw 
away  money  on  a  house  for  no  other  end  but  vanity. 
Many  a  man  builds  a  grand  house  for  a  show-off,  when 
he  has  verra  little  to  support  it.  But  the  Templar's 
different.  He  has  made  a  mint  of  money  since  he  took 
the  quarry  in  his  own  hand." 

"  He's  verra  thick  wi'  Wilson,  I  notice,"  piped  the 
Deacon,  turning  with  a  grin,  and  a  gleaming  droop  of  the 
eye  on  the  head  of  his  tormented  enemy.  The  Deacon's 
face  was  alive  and  quick  with  the  excitement  of  the 
game,  his  face  flushed  with  an  eager  grin,  his  eyes  glit- 
tering. Decent  folk  in  the  brake  behind,  felt  com- 
punctious visitings  when  they  saw  him  turn  with  the 
flushed  grin,  and  the  gleaming  squint  on  the  head  of  his 
enduring  victim.  "Now  for  another  stab!"  they 
thought. 

"  You  may  well  say  that,"  shouted  Brodie.  "  Wilson 
has  procured  the  whole  of  the  Templar's  carterage.  Oh, 
Wilson  has  become  a  power!  Yon  new  houses  of  his 
must  be  bringing  in  a  braw  penny. — I'm  thinking,  Mr. 
Connal,  that  Wilson  ought  to  be  the  Provost!  " 

"  Strange!  "  cried  the  former  Head  of  the  Town, 
"  that  you  should  have  been  thinking  that!  I've  just 
been  in  the  same  mind  o't.     Wilson's  by  far  and  away 

[157] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GREEN  SHUTTEES 

the  most  progressive  man  we  have.     What  a  business 
he  has  built  in  two  or  three  years!  " 

"He  has  that!  "  shouted  Brodie.  "He  goes  up  the 
brae  as  fast  as  some  other  folk  are  going  down't.  And 
yet  they  tell  me  he  got  a  verra  poor  welcome  from  some 
of  us  the  first  morning  he  appeared  in  Barbie!  " 

Gourlay  gave  no  sign.  Others  would  have  shown  by 
the  moist  glisten  of  self-pity  in  the  eye,  or  the  scowl  of 
wrath,  how  much  they  were  moved;  but  Gourlay  stared 
calmly  before  him,  his  chin  resting  on  the  head  of  his 
staff,  resolute,  immobile,  like  a  stone  head  at  gaze  in  the 
desert.  Only  the  larger  fulness  of  his  fine  nostril  be- 
trayed the  hell  of  wrath  seething  within  him.  And 
when  they  alighted  in  Skeighan  an  observant  boy  said 
to  his  mother,  "  I  saw  the  marks  of  his  chirted  teeth 
through  his  jaw." 

But  they  were  still  far  from  Skeighan,  and  Gourlay 
had  much  to  thole. 

"  Did  ye  hear?  "  shouted  Brodie,  "  that  Wilson  is 
sending  his  son  to  the  College  at  Embro'  in  October?  " 

"D'ye  tell  me  that?"  said  the  Provost.  "What  a 
successful  lad  that  has  been!  He's  a  credit  to  moar 
than  Wilson,  he's  a  credit  to  the  whole  town." 

"Aye,"  yelled  Brodie,  "  the  money  wasna  wasted  on 
him!  It  must  be  a  terrible  thing  when  a  man  has  a 
splurging  ass  for  his  son,  that  never  got  a  prize!" 

The  Provost  began  to  get  nervous.  Brodie  was  going 
too  far.  It  was  all  very  well  for  Brodie  who  was  at  the 
far  end  of  the  waggonette,  and  out  of  danger;  but  if  he 
provoked  an  outbreak,  Gourlay  would  think  nothing  of 
tearing  Provost  and  Deacon  from  their  perch,  and  toss- 
ing them  across  the  hedge. 

[  158  ] 


CHAPTER   FIFTEEN 

"What  does  Wilson  mean  to  make  of  his  son?"  he 
enquired — a  civil  enough  question  surely. 

"  Oh,  a  minister.  That'll  mean  six  or  seven  years  at 
the  University." 

"  Indeed!  "  said  the  Provost.  "  That'll  cost  an  enor- 
mous siller! " 

"  Oh,"  yelled  Brodie,  "  but  Wilson  can  afford  it!  It's 
not  everybody  can!  It's  all  verra  well  to  send  your  son 
to  Skeighan  High  School,  but  when  it  comes  to  sending 
him  to  College,  it's  time  to  think  twice  of  what  you're 
doing — especially  if  you've  little  money  left  to  come 
and  go  on." 

"  Yeth,"  lisped  the  Deacon,  "  if  a  man  canna  afford 
to  College  his  son  he  had  better  put  him  in  hith  busi- 
ness— if  he  hath  ainy  business  left  to  thpeak  o',  that 
ith! " 

The  brake  swung  on  through  merry  cornfields  where 
reapers  were  at  work,  past  happy  brooks  flashing  to  the 
sun,  through  the  solemn  hush  of  ancient  and  mysterious 
woods,  beneath  the  great  white-moving  clouds  and  blue 
spaces  of  the  sky.  And  amid  the  suave  enveloping 
greatness  of  the  world,  the  human  pismires  stung  each 
other  and  were  cruel,  and  full  of  hate  and  malice  and  a 
petty  rage. 

"  Oh,  damn  it,  enough  of  this!  "  said  the  baker  at  last. 

"  Enough  of  what?  "  blustered  Brodie. 

"  Of  you  and  your  gibes,"  said  the  baker  with  a  wry 
mouth  of  disgust.     "  Damn  it,  man,  leave  folk  alane!  " 

Gourlay  turned  to  him  quietly.  "  Thank  you,  baker," 
he  said  slowly.  "But  don't  interfere  on  my  behalf! 
John  Gourla  " — he  dwelt  on  his  name  in  ringing  pride 
— "  John  Gourla  can  fight  for  his  own  hand — if  so,  there 

[  159  ] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GEEEN  SHUTTEKS 

need,  to  be.  And  pay  no  heed  to  the  thing  before  ye. 
The  mair  ye  tramp  on  a  dirt  it  spreads  the  wider!  " 

"  Who  was  referring  to  you  f  "  bellowed  Brodie. 

Gourlay  looked  over  at  him  in  the  far  corner  of  the 
brake,  with  the  wide  open  glower  that  made  people 
blink.  Brodie  blinked  rapidly,  trying  to  stare  fiercely 
the  while. 

"  Maybe  ye  werna  referring  to  me,"  said  Gourlay 
slowly.  "  But  if  /  had  been  in  your  end  o'  the  brake 
ye  would  have  been  in  hell  or  this!  " 

He  had  said  enough.  There  was  silence  in  the  brake 
till  it  reached  Skeighan.  But  the  evil  was  done. 
Enough  had  been  said  to  influence  Gourlay  to  the  most 
disastrous  resolution  of  his  life. 

"  Get  yourself  ready  for  the  College  in  October,"  he 
ordered  his  son  that  evening. 

"  The  College!  "  cried  John,  aghast. 

"Yes!  Is  there  ainy thing  in  that  to  gape  at?" 
snapped  his  father,  in  sudden  irritation  at  the  boy's 
amaze. 

"  But  I  don't  want  to  gang! "  John  whimpered 
as  before. 

"  Want!  What  does  it  matter  what  you  want?  You 
should  be  damned  glad  of  the  chance!  I  mean  to  make 
ye  a  minister — they  have  plenty  of  money  and  little  to 
do — a  grand  easy  life  o't.  MacCandlish  tells  me  you're 
a  stupid  ass,  but  have  some  little  gift  of  words.  You 
have  every  qualification!  " 

"  It's  against  my  will,"  John  bawled  angrily. 

"  Your  will!  "  sneered  his  father. 

To  John  the  command  was  not  only  tyrannical,  but 
treacherous.     There  had  been  nothing  to  warn  him  of 

[  160  ] 


CHAPTER  FIFTEEN 

a  coming  change,  for  Gourlay  was  too  contemptuous  of 
his  wife  and  children  to  inform  them  how  his  business 
stood.  John  had  been  brought  up  to  go  into  the  busi- 
ness, and  now,  at  the  last  moment  he  was  undeceived, 
and  ordered  off  to  a  new  life,  from  which  every  instinct 
of  his  being  shrank  afraid.  He  was  cursed  with  an  im- 
agination in  excess  of  his  brains,  and  in  the  haze  of  the 
future  he  saw  two  pictures  with  uncanny  vividness — 
himself  in  bleak  lodgings  raising  his  head  from  Virgil, 
to  wonder  what  they  were  doing  at  home  to-night,  and, 
contrasted  with  that  loneliness,  the  others,  his  cronies, 
laughing  along  the  country  roads  beneath  the  glimmer 
of  the  stars.  They  would  be  having  the  fine  ploys  while 
he  was  mewed  up  in  Edinburgh.  Must  he  leave  loved 
Barbie  and  the  House  with  the  Green  Shutters,  must  he 
still  drudge  at  books  which  he  loathed,  must  he  venture 
on  a  new  life  where  everything  terrified  his  mind? 

"  It's  a  shame!  "  he  cried.  "And  I  refuse  to  go.  I 
don't  want  to  leave  Barbie !  I'm  feared  of  Edinburgh  " 
— and  there  he  stopped  in  conscious  impotence  of 
speech.  How  could  he  explain  his  forebodings  to  a 
rock  of  a  man  like  his  father? 

"  No  more  o't!  "  roared  Gourlay,  flinging  out  his 
hand.  "  Not  another  word!  You  go  to  College  in 
October!  " 

"Aye  man,  Johnny,"  said  his  mother,  "  think  o'  the 
future  that's  before  ye!  " 

"Aye !  "  howled  the  youth  in  silly  anger,  "  it's  like  to 
be  a  braw  future!  " 

"  It's  the  best  future  you  can  have!  "  growled  his 
father. 

For  while  rivalry,  born  of  hate,  was  the  propelling 

[161] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GREEN  SHUTTERS 

influence  in  Gourlay's  mind,  other  reasons  whispered 
that  the  course  suggested  by  hate  was  a  good  one  on  its 
merits.  His  judgment,  such  as  it  was,  supported  the  im- 
pulse of  his  blood.  It  told  him  that  the  old  business 
would  be  a  poor  heritage  for  his  son  and  that  it  would 
be  well  to  look  for  another  opening.  The  boy  gave  no 
sign  of  aggressive  smartness  to  warrant  a  belief  that  he 
would  ever  pull  the  thing  together.  Better  make  him 
a  minister.  Surely  there  was  enough  money  left  about 
the  House  for  tha-at!  It  was  the  best  that  could  be- 
fall him. 

Mrs.  Gourlay,  for  her  part,  though  sorry  to  lose  her 
son,  was  so  pleased  at  the  thought  of  sending  him  to 
College,  and  making  him  a  minister,  that  she  ran  on  in 
foolish  maternal  gabble  to  the  wife  of  Drucken  Wabster. 
Mrs.  Webster  informed  the  gossips  and  they  discussed 
the  matter  at  the  Cross. 

"Dod,"  said  Sandy  Toddle,  "Gourlay's  better  off 
than  I  supposed!  " 

"  Huts!  "  said  Brodie,  "  it's  just  a  wheen  bluff  to 
blind  folk!" 

"  It  would  fit  him  better,"  said  the  Doctor,  "  if  he 
spent  some  money  on  his  daughter.  She  ought  to  pass 
the  winter  in  a  warmer  locality  than  Barbie.  The  las- 
sie has  a  poor  chest!  I  told  Gourlay,  but  he  only  gave 
a  grunt.  And  '  oh,'  said  Mrs.  Gourlay,  *  it  would  be  a 
daft-like  thing  to  send  lier  away,  when  John  maun  be 
weel-provided  for  the  College.'  D'ye  know,  I'm  begin- 
ning to  think  there's  something  seriously  wrong  with 
yon  woman's  health!  She  seemed  anxious  to  consult  me 
on  her  own  account,  but  when  I  offered  to  sound  her, 
she  wouldn't  hear  of  it — '  Na,'  she  cried,  '  I'll  keep  it 

[162] 


CHAPTER  FIFTEEN 

to  mysell! ' — and  put  her  arm  across  her  breast  as 
if  to  keep  me  off.  I  do  think  she's  hiding  some  com- 
plaint! Only  a  woman  whose  mind  was  weak  with 
disease  could  have  been  so  callous  as  yon  about  her 
lassie." 

"  Oh,  her  mind's  weak  enough/'  said  Sandy  Toddle. 
"  It  was  always  that!  But  it's  only  because  Gourlay  has 
tyraneezed  her  verra  soul.  I'm  surprised,  however,  that 
lie  should  be  careless  of  the  girl.  He  was  aye  said  to  be 
browdened  upon  her." 

"  Men-folk  are  often  like  that  about  lassie-weans," 
said  Johnny  Coe.  "  They  like  well  enough  to  pet  them 
when  they're  wee,  but  when  once  they're  big  they  never 
look  the  road  they're  on!  They're  a'  very  fine  when 
they're  pets,  but  they're  no  sae  fine  when  they're  pretty 
misses. — And,  to  tell  the  truth,  Janet  Gourlay's  ainy- 
thing  but  pretty!  " 

Old  Bleach-the-boys,  the  bitter  dominie  (who  rarely 
left  the  studies  in  political  economy  which  he  found  a 
solace  for  his  thwarted  powers)  happened  to  be  at  the 
Cross  that  evening,  A  brooding  and  taciturn  man,  he 
said  nothing  till  others  had  their  say.  Then  he  shook 
his  head. 

"  They're  making  a  great  mistake."  he  said  gravely, 
"they're  making  a  great  mistake!  Yon  boy's  the  last 
youngster  on  earth  who  should  go  to  College." 

"Aye  man,  dominie,  he's  an  infernal  ass,  is  he  noat?  " 
they  cried,  and  pressed  for  his  judgment. 

At  last,  partly  in  real  pedantry,  partly,  with  hu- 
mourous intent  to  puzzle  them,  he  delivered  his  astound- 
ing mind. 

"  The  fault  of  young  Gourlay,"  quoth  he,  "  is  a  sen- 

[163] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GEEEN  SHUTTEKS 

sory  perceptiveness  in  gross  excess  of  his  intellectual- 

ity." 

They  blinked  and  tried  to  understand. 

"Aye  man,  dominie!"  said  Sandy  Toddle.  "That 
means  he's  an  infernal  cuddy,  dominie!  Does  it  na, 
dominie  ?  " 

But  Bleach-the-boys  had  said  enough.  "Aye,"  he 
said  drily,  "  there's  a  wheen  gey  cuddies  in  Barbie!  " — 
and  he  went  back  to  his  stuffy  little  room  to  study  The 
Wealth  of  Nations. 


[164] 


XVI 

The  scion  of  the  house  of  Gourlay  was  a  most  un- 
travelled  sprig  when  his  father  packed  him  off  to  the 
University.  Of  the  work!  beyond  Skeighan  he  had  no 
idea.  Repression  of  his  children's  wishes  to  see  some- 
thing of  the  world  was  a  feature  of  Gourlay's  tyranny, 
less  for  the  sake  of  the  money  which  a  trip  might  cost 
(though  that  counted  for  something  in  his  refusal)  than 
for  the  sake  of  asserting  his  authority.  "  Wants  to 
gang  to  Fechars,  indeed!  Let  him  bide  at  home,"  he 
would  growl,  and  at  home  the  youngster  had  to  bide. 
This  had  been  the  more  irksome  to  John  since  most  of 
his  companions  in  the  town  were  beginning  to  peer  out, 
with  their  mammies  and  daddies  to  encourage  them. 
To  give  their  cubs  a  "  cast  o'  the  world  "  was  a  rule 
with  the  potentates  of  Barbie;  once  or  twice  a  year 
young  Hopeful  was  allowed  to  accompany  his  sire  to 
Fechars  or  Pol  tan  die,  or — oh,  rare  joy! — to  the  city  on 
the  Clyde.  To  go  farther,  and  get  the  length  of  Edin- 
burgh, was  dangerous,  because  you  came  back  with  a 
halo  of  glory  round  your  head  which  banded  your  fel- 
lows together  in  a  common  attack  on  your  pretensions. 
It  was  his  lack  of  pretension  to  travel,  however,  that 
banded  them  against  young  Gourlay.  "  Gunk "  and 
"  chaw  "  are  the  Scots  for  a  bitter  and  envious  disap- 
pointment which  shows  itself  in  face  and  eyes.  Young 
Gourlay  could  never  conceal  that  envious  look  when 

[  165  ] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GREEN  SHUTTERS 

he  heard  of  a  glory  which  he  did  not  share;  and  the 
youngsters  noted  his  weakness  with  the  unerring  preci- 
sion of  the  urchin  to  mark  simple  difference  of  charac- 
ter. Now  the  boy  presses  fiendishly  on  an  intimate 
discovery  in  the  nature  of  his  friends,  both  because  it 
gives  him  a  new  and  delightful  feeling  of  power  over 
them,  and  also  because  he  has  not  learned  charity  from 
a  sense  of  his  deficiencies,  the  brave  ruffian  having  none. 
He  is  always  coming  back  to  probe  the  raw  place,  and 
Barbie  boys  were  always  coming  back  to  "  do  a  gunk  " 
and  "  play  a  chaw  "  on  young  Gourlay  by  boasting  their 
knowledge  of  the  world,  winking  at  each  other  the 
while  to  observe  his  grinning  anger.  They  were  large 
on  the  wonders  they  had  seen  and  the  places  they  had 
been  to,  while  he  grew  small  (and  they  saw  it)  in  envy 
of  their  superiority.  Even  Swipey  Broon  had  a  crow 
at  him.  For  Swipey  had  journeyed  in  the  company  of 
his  father  to  far-off  Fechars,  yea  even  to  the  groset-fair; 
and  came  back  with  an  epic  tale  of  his  adventures.  He 
had  been  in  fifteen  taverns,  and  one  hotel  (a  Temper- 
ance Hotel  where  old  Brown  bashed  the  proprietor  for 
refusing  to  supply  him  gin);  one  Pepper's  Ghost;  one 
Wild  Beasts'  Show;  one  Exhibition  of  the  Fattest 
Woman  on  the  Earth;  also  in  the  precincts  of  one  gaol, 
where  Mr.  Patrick  Brown  was  cruelly  incarcerate  for 
wiping  the  floor  with  the  cold  refuser  of  the  gin. 
"  Criffens!  Fechars!"  said  Swipey  for  a  twelvemonth 
after,  stunned  by  the  mere  recollection  of  that  home  of 
the  glories  of  the  earth.  And  then  he  would  begin  to 
expatiate  for  the  benefit  of  young  Gourlay — for  Swipey, 
though  his  name  was  the  base  Teutonic  Brown,  had  a 
Celtic  contempt  for  brute  facts  that  cripple  the  imperial 

[166] 


CHAPTER  SIXTEEN 

mind.  So  well  did  he  expatiate  that  young  Gourlay 
would  slink  home  to  his  mother  and  say,  "  Yah,  even 
Swipey  Broon  has  been  to  Fechars,  though  my  faither 
'ull  no  allow  me ! "  "  Never  mind,  dear,"  she  would 
soothe  him,  "  when  once  you're  in  the  business,  you'll 
gang  a'where.  And  nut  wan  o'  them  has  sic  a  business 
to  gang  intill!  " 

But  though  he  longed  to  go  here  and  there  for  a  day, 
that  he  might  be  able  to  boast  of  it  at  home,  young 
Gourlay  felt  that  leaving  Barbie  for  good  would  be  a 
cutting  of  his  heart-strings.  Each  feature  of  it,  town 
and  landward,  was  a  crony  of  old  years.  In  a  land  like 
Barbie  of  quick  hill  and  dale,  of  tumbled  wood  and  fell, 
each  facet  of  nature  has  an  individuality  so  separate  and 
so  strong,  that  if  you  live  with  it  a  little  it  becomes 
your  friend,  and  a  memory  so  dear  that  you  kiss  the 
thought  of  it  in  absence.  The  fields  are  not  similar 
as  pancakes;  they  have  their  difference;  each  leaps  to 
the  eye  with  a  remembered  and  peculiar  charm.  That 
is  why  the  heart  of  the  Scot  dies  in  flat  Southern  lands; 
he  lives  in  a  vacancy;  at  dawn  there  is  no  Ben  Agray  to 
nod  recognition  through  the  mists.  And  that  is  why 
when  he  gets  north  of  Carlisle  he  shouts  with  glee  as 
each  remembered  object  sweeps  on  the  sight;  yonder's 
the  Nith  with  a  fisherman  hip-deep  jigging  at  his  rod, 
and  yonder's  Corsoncon  with  the  mist  on  his  brow.  It 
is  less  the  totality  of  the  place  than  the  individual  fea- 
ture that  pulls  at  the  heart,  and  it  was  the  individual 
feature  that  pulled  at  young  Gourlay.  With  intellect 
little  or  none,  he  had  a  vast  sensational  experience,  and 
each  aspect  of  Barbie  was  working  in  his  blood  and 
brain.     Was  there  ever  a  Cross  like  Barbie  Cross;  was 

[  167] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GREEN  SHUTTERS 

there  ever  a  burn  like  the  Lintie?  It  was  blithe  and 
heartsome  to  go  birling  to  Skeighan  in  the  train;  it  was 
grand  to  jouk  round  Barbie  on  the  nichts  at  e'en!  Even 
people  whom  he  did  not  know  he  could  locate  with  warm 
sure  feelings  of  superiority.  If  a  poor  workman 
slouched  past  him  on  the  road  he  set  him  down  in  his 
heart  as  one  of  that  rotten  crowd  from  the  Weaver's 
Vennel  or  the  Tinker's  Wynd.  Barbie  was  in  subjec- 
tion to  the  mind  of  the  son  of  the  important  man.  To 
dash  about  Barbie  in  a  gig  with  a  big  dog  walloping 
behind,  his  coat-collar  high  about  his  ears,  and  the  reek 
of  a  meerschaum  pipe  floating  white  and  blue  many  yards 
behind  him,  jovial  and  sordid  nonsense  about  home — 
that  had  been  his  ideal.  His  father,  he  thought  angrily, 
had  encouraged  the  ideal,  and  now  he  forbade  it,  like 
the  brute  he  was.  From- the  earth  in  which  he  was 
rooted  so  deeply  his  father  tore  him,  to  fling  him  on  a 
world  he  had  forbidden  him  to  know.  His  heart  pre- 
saged disaster. 

Old  Gourlay  would  have  scorned  the  sentimentality 
of  seeing  him  off  from  the  station,  and  Mrs.  Gourlay 
was  too  feckless  to  propose  it  for  herself.  Janet  had 
offered  to  convoy  him,  but  when  the  afternoon  came  she 
was  down  with  a  racking  cold.  He  was  alone  as  he 
strolled  on  the  platform;  a  youth  well-groomed  and  well- 
supplied,  but  for  once  in  his  life  not  a  swaggerer — 
though  the  chance  to  swagger  was  unique.  He  was 
pointed  out  as  "Young  Gourlay  off  to  the  College." 
But  he  had  no  pleasure  in  the  role,  for  his  heart  was  in 
his  boots. 

He  took  the  slow  train  to  Skeighan,  where  he  boarded 
the   express.     Few    sensational    experiences   were    un- 


CHAPTER  SIXTEEN 

known  to  his  too-impressionable  mind,  and  he  knew  the 
animation  of  railway  travelling.  Coming  back  from 
Skeighan  in  an  empty  compartment  on  nights  of  the 
past,  he  had  sometimes  shouted  and  stamped  and  banged 
the  cushions  till  the  dust  flew,  in  mere  joy  of  his  rush 
through  the  air;  the  constant  rattle,  the  quick-repeated 
noise,  getting  at  his  nerves,  as  they  get  at  the  nerves  of 
savages  and  Englishmen  on  Bank  Holidays.  But  any 
animation  of  the  kind  which  he  felt  to-day  was  soon 
expelled  by  the  slow  uneasiness  welling  through  his 
blood.  He  had  no  eager  delight  in  the  unknown  coun- 
try rushing  past;  it  inspired  him  with  fear.  He  thought 
with  a  feeble  smile  of  what  Mysie  Monk  said  when  they 
took  her  at  the  age  of  sixty  (for  the  first  time  in  her 
life)  to  the  top  of  Milmannoch  Hill.  "  Eh,"  said  Mysie, 
looking  round  her  in  amaze,  "  Eh,  sirs,  it's  a  lairge  place 
the  world  when  you  see  it  all !  "  Gourlay  smiled  be- 
cause he  had  the  same  thought,  but  feebly,  because  he 
was  cowering  at  the  bigness  of  the  world.  Folded  nooks 
in  the  hills  swept  past,  enclosing  their  lonely  farms; 
then  the  open  straths  where  autumnal  waters  gave  a  pale 
gleam  to  the  sky.  Sodden  moors  stretched  away  in  vast 
patient  loneliness.  Then  a  grey  smear  of  rain  blotted 
the  world,  penning  him  in  with  his  dejection.  He 
seemed  to  be  rushing  through  unseen  space,  with  no 
companion  but  his  own  foreboding.  "  Where  are  you 
going  to?  "  asked  his  mind,  and  the  wheels  of  the  train 
repeated  the  question  all  the  way  to  Edinburgh,  jerking 
it  out  in  two  short  lines  and  a  long  one:  "  Where  are 
you  going  to?  Where  are  you  going  to?  Ha,  ha,  Mr. 
Gourlay,  where  are  you  going  to  ?  " 

It  was  the  same  sensitiveness  to  physical  impression 

[1G9] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GEEEN  SHUTTERS 

which  won  him  to  Barbie  that  repelled  him  from  the 
outer  world.  The  scenes  round  Barbie,  so  vividly  im- 
pressed, were  his  friends  because  he  had  known  them 
from  his  birth;  he  was  a  somebody  in  their  midst  and 
had  mastered  their  familiarity;  they  were  the  ministers 
of  his  mind.  Those  other  scenes  were  his  foes  because, 
realising  them  morbidly  in  relation  to  himself,  he  was 
cowed  by  their  big  indifference  to  him,  and  felt  puny, 
a  nobody  before  them.  And  he  could  not  pass  them  like 
more  manly  and  more  callous  minds;  they  came  bur- 
dening in  on  him  whether  he  would  or  no.  Neither 
could  he  get  above  them.  Except  when  lording  it  at 
Barbie  he  had  never  a  quick  reaction  of  the  mind  on 
what  he  saw;  it  possessed  him,  not  he  it. 

About  twilight,  when  the  rain  had  ceased,  his  train 
was  brought  up  with  a  jerk  between  the  stations.  While 
the  rattle  and  bang  continued  it  seemed  not  unnatural 
to  young  Gourlay  (though  depressing)  to  be  whirling 
through  the  darkening  land;  it  went  past  like  a  pano- 
rama in  a  dream.  But  in  the  dead  pause  following  the 
noise  he  thought  it  "  queer  "  to  be  sitting  here  in  the 
intense  quietude  and  looking  at  a  strange  and  unfamiliar 
scene — planted  in  its  midst  by  a  miracle  of  speed  and 
gazing  at  it  closely  through  a  window!  Two  plough- 
men from  the  farmhouse  near  the  line  were  unyoking  at 
the  end  of  the  croft;  he  could  hear  the  muddy  noise 
("  splorroch  "  is  the  Scotch  of  it)  made  by  the  big  hoofs 
on  the  squashy  head-rig.  "  Bauldy  "  was  the  name  of 
the  shorter  ploughman,  so  yelled  to  by  his  mate,  and  two 
of  the  horses  were  "  Prince  and  Rab  "  just  like  a  pair  in 
Loranogie's  stable.  In  the  curtainless  window  of  the 
farmhouse  shone  a  lea])ing  flame,  not  the  steady  glow  of 

fno] 


CHAPTER   SIXTEEN 

a  lamp,  but  the  tossing  brightness  of  a  fire,  and  thought 
he  to  himself,  "  They're  getting  the  porridge  for  the 
men!  "  He  had  a  vision  of  the  woman  stirring  in  the 
meal,  and  of  the  homely  interior  in  the  dancing  fire- 
light. He  wondered  who  the  folk  were,  and  would  have 
liked  to  know  them.  Yes,  it  was  "  queer,"  he  thought, 
that  he  who  left  Barbie  only  a  few  hours  ago  should  be 
in  intimate  momentary  touch  with  a  place  and  people 
he  had  never  seen  before.  The  train  seemed  arrested 
by  a  spell  that  he  might  get  his  vivid  impression. 

When  ensconced  in  his  room  that  evening,  he  had  a 
brighter  outlook  on  the  world.  With  the  curtains 
drawn,  and  the  lights  burning,  its  shabbiness  was  unre- 
vealed.  After  the  whirling  strangeness  of  the  day  he 
was  glad  to  be  in  a  place  tliat  was  his  own;  here  at  least 
was  a  corner  of  earth  of  which  he  ivas  master;  it  reas- 
sured him.  The  firelight  dancing  on  the  tea  things  was 
pleasant  and  homely,  and  the  enclosing  cosiness  shut 
out  the  black  roaring  world  that  tlireatened  to  engulf 
his  personality.  His  spirits  rose,  ever  ready  to  jump  at 
a  trifle. 

The  morrow,  however,  was  the  first  of  his  lugubrious 
time. 

If  he  had  been  an  able  man  he  might  have  found  a 
place  in  his  classes  to  console  him.  Many  youngsters 
are  conscious  of  a  vast  depression  when  entering  the  por- 
tals of  a  University;  they  feel  themselves  inadequate  to 
cope  with  the  wisdom  of  the  ages  garnered  in  the  solid 
walls.  They  envy  alike  the  smiling  sureness  of  the 
genial  charlatan  (to  whom  Professors  are  a  set  of  fools), 
and  the  easy  mastery  of  the  man  of  brains.  They  have 
a  cowering  sense  of  their  own  inefficiency.     But  th-e 

[171] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GREEN  SHUTTERS 

feeling  of  uneasiness  presently  disappears.  The  first 
shivering  dip  is  soon  forgotten  by  the  hearty  breaster 
of  the  waves.  But  ere  you  breast  the  waves  you  must 
swim;  and  to  swim  through  the  sea  of  learning  was  more 
than  heavy-headed  Gourlay  could  accomplish.  His 
mind,  finding  no  solace  in  work,  was  left  to  prey  upon 
itself. 

If  he  had  been  the  ass  total  and  complete  he  might 
have  loafed  in  the  comfortable  haze  which  surrounds 
th€  average  intelligence,  and  cushions  it  against  the 
world.  But  in  Gourlay  was  a  rawness  of  nerve,  a  sensi- 
tiveness to  physical  impression,  which  kept  him  fretting 
and  stewing,  and  never  allowed  him  to  lapse  on  a  slug- 
gish indifference. 

Though  he  could  not  understand  things,  he  could 
not  escape  them;  they  thrust  themselves  forv/ard  on 
his  notice.  We  hear  of  poor  genius  cursed  with 
perceptions  which  it  can't  express;  poor  Gourlay  was 
cursed  with  impressions  which  he  couldn't  intellectvial- 
ize.  With  little  power  of  thought,  he  had  a  vast  power 
of  observation;  and  as  everything  he  observed  in  Edin- 
burgh was  offensive  and  depressing,  he  was  constantly 
depressed — the  more  because  he  could  not  understand. 
At  Barbie  his  life,  though  equally  void  of  mental  inter- 
est, was  solaced  by  surroundings  which  he  loved.  In 
Edinburgh  his  surroundings  were  appalling  to  his  timid 
mind.  There  was  a  greengrocer's  shop  at  the  corner  of 
the  street  in  which  he  lodged,  and  he  never  passed  it 
without  being  conscious  of  its  trodden  and  decaying 
leaves.  They  were  enough  to  make  his  morning  foul. 
The  middle-aged  woman,  who  had  to  handle  carrots  with 
her  frozen  fingers,  was  less  wretched  than  he  who  saw 

[  172  ] 


CHAPTER  SIXTEEN 

her,  and  thought  of  her  after  he  went  by.  A  thousand 
such  impressions  came  boring  in  upon  his  mind,  and 
made  him  squirm.  He  could  not  toss  them  aside  like 
the  callous  and  manly;  he  could  not  see  them  in  their 
due  relation,  and  think  them  unimportant,  like  the  able; 
they  were  always  recurring  and  suggesting  woe.  If  he 
fled  to  his  room,  he  was  followed  by  his  morbid  sense  of 
an  unpleasant  world.  He  conceived  a  rankling  hatred 
of  the  four  walls  wherein  he  had  to  live.  Heavy  Bibli- 
cal pictures,  in  frames  of  gleaming  black  like  the  splin- 
ters of  a  hearse,  were  hung  against  a  dark  ground. 
Every  time  Gourlay  raised  his  head  he  scowled  at  them 
with  eyes  of  gloom.  It  was  curious  that,  hating  his 
room,  he  was  loth  to  go  to  bed.  He  got  a  habit  of  sit- 
ting till  three  in  the  morning,  staring  at  the  dead  fire 
in  sullen  apathy. 

He  was  sitting  at  nine  o'clock  one  evening,  wondering 
if  there  was  no  means  of  escape  from  the  wretched  life 
he  had  to  lead,  when  he  received  a  letter  from  Jock 
Allan,  asking  him  to  come  and  dine. 


[173] 


XVII 

That  dinner  was  a  turning-point  in  young  Gourlay's 
career.  It  is  lucky  that  a  letter  describing  it  has  fallen 
into  the  hands  of  the  patient  chronicler.  It  was  sent 
by  young  Jimmy  Wilson  to  his  mother.  As  it  gives  an 
idea — which  is  slightly  mistaken — of  Jock  Allan,  and  an 
idea — which  is  very  unmistakable — of  young  Wilson,  it 
is  here  presented  in  the  place  of  pride.  It  were  a  pity 
not  to  give  a  human  document  of  this  kind  all  the  hon- 
our in  one's  power. 

"  Dear  mother/'  said  the  wee  sma'  Scoatchman — so 
the  hearty  Allan  dubbed  him — "  Dear  mother,  I  just 
write  to  inform  you  that  I've  been  out  to  a  grand  dinner 
at  Jock  Allan's.  He  met  me  on  Prince's  Street,  and 
made  a  great  how-d'ye-do.  '  Come  out  on  Thursday 
night,  and  dine  with  me/  says  he,  in  his  big  way.  So 
liere  I  went  out  to  see  him.  I  can  tell  you  he's  a 
warmer!  I  never  saw  a  man  eat  so  much  in  all  my  born 
days — but  I  suppose  he  would  be  having  more  on  his 
table  than  usual,  to  shew  off  a  bit,  knowing  us  Barbie 
boys  would  be  writing  home  about  it  all.  And  drink! 
D'ye  know? — he  began  with  a  whole  half  tumbler  of 
whiskey,  and  how  many  more  he  had  I  really  should 
not  like  to  say!  And  he  must  be  used  to  it,  too,  for  it 
seemed  to  have  no  effect  on  him  whatever.  And  then 
he  smoked  and  smoked — two  great  big  cigars  after  we 
had  finished  eating,  and  then  '  damn  it '  says  he — he's 

[174] 


CHAPTER  SEVENTEEN 

an  awful  man  to  swear — '  damn  it '  he  says,  '  there's  no 
satisfaction  in  cigars;  I  must  have  a  pipe,'  and  he  actu- 
ally smoked  four  pipes  before  I  came  away!  I  noticed 
the  cigars  were  called  '  Estorellas — Best  Quality,'  and 
when  I  was  in  last  Saturday  night  getting  an  ounce  of 
shag  at  the  wee  shoppie  round  the  corner,  I  asked  the 
price  of  'these  Estorellas.'  '  Ninepence  a  piece!' 
said  the  bodie.  Just  imagine  Jock  Allan  smoking 
eighteenpence — and  not  being  satisfied!  He's  up  in 
the  world  since  he  used  to  shaw  turnips  at  Loranogie  for 
sixpence  a  day!  But  he'll  come  down  as  quick  if  he 
keeps  on  at  yon  rate.  He  made  a  great  phrase  with  me, 
but  though  it  keeps  down  one's  weekly  bill  to  get  a 
meal  like  yon — I  declare  I  wasn't  hungry  for  two  days — 
for  all  that  I'll  go  very  little  about  him.  He'll  be  the 
kind  that  borrows  money  very  fast — one  of  those  harum- 
scarum  ones!  " 

Criticism  like  that  is  a  boomerang  that  comes  back  to 
hit  the  emitting  skull  with  a  hint  of  its  kindred  wooden- 
ness.  It  reveals  the  writer  more  than  the  written  of. 
Allan  was  a  bigger  man  than  you  would  gather  from 
Wilson's  account  of  his  Gargantuan  revelry.  He  had  a 
genius  for  mathematics — a  gift  which  crops  up,  like 
music,  in  the  most  unexpected  corners — and  from 
ploughboy  and  herd  he  had  become  an  actuary  in  Auld 
Eeekie.  Wilson  had  no  need  to  be  afraid,  the  meagre 
fool,  for  his  host  could  have  bought  him  and  sold  him. 

Allan  had  been  in  love  with  young  Gourlay's  mother 
when  she  herself  was  a  gay  young  fliskie  at  Tenshilling- 
land,  but  his  little  romance  was  soon  ended  when  Gour- 
lay  came  and  whisked  her  away.  But  she  remained  the 
one  romance  of  his  life.     Now  in  his  gross  and  jovial 

[175] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GKEEK  SHUTTERS 

middle-age  he  idealized  her  in  memory  (a  sentimentalist, 
of  course — he  was  Scotch);  he  never  saw  her  in  har 
scraggy  misery  to  be  disillusioned;  to  him  she  was  still 
the  wee  bit  lairdie's  dochter,  a  vision  that  had  dawned 
on  his  wretched  boyhood,  a  pleasant  and  pathetic  mem- 
ory. And  for  that  reason  he  had  a  curious  kindness  to 
her  boy.  That  was  why  he  introduced  him  to  his  boon 
companions.  He  thought  he  was  doing  him  a  good 
turn. 

It  was  true  that  Allan  made  a  phrase  with  a  withered 
wisp  of  humanity  like  young  WilsOn.  Not  that  he  failed 
to  see  through  him,  for  he  christened  him  "  a  dried 
washing-clout."  But  Allan,  like  most  great-hearted 
Scots  far  from  their  native  place,  saw  it  through  a  veil 
of  sentiment;  harsher  features  that  would  have  been 
ever-present  to  his  mind  if  he  had  never  left  it,  disap- 
peared from  view,  and  left  only  the  finer  qualities  bright 
within  his  memory.  And  idealizing  the  place  he  ideal- 
ized its  sons.  To  him  they  had  a  value  not  their  own, 
just  because  they  knew  the  brig  and  the  burn  and  the 
brae,  and  had  sat  upon  the  school  benches.  He  would 
have  welcomed  a  dog  from  Barbie.  It  was  from  a  like 
generous  emotion  that  he  greeted  the  bodies  so  warmly 
on  his  visits  home — he, thought  they  were  as  pleased  to 
see  him,  as  he  was  to  see  them.  But  they  imputed  false 
motives  to  his  hearty  greetings.  Even  as  they  shook 
his  hand  the  mean  ones  would  think  to  themselves: 
"  What  does  he  mean  by  this,  now?  What's  he  up  till? 
No  doubt  he'll  be  wanting  something  off  me!  "  They 
could  not  understand  the  gusto  with  which  the  returned 
exile  cried  "  Aye  man,  Jock  Tamson,  and  how  are  ye?  " 
They  thought  such  warmth  must  have  a  sinister  inten- 

[176] 


CHAPTER  SEVENTEEN 

tion. — A  Scot  revisiting  his  native  place  ought  to  walk 
very  quietly.    For  the  parish  is  sizing  him  up. 

There  were  two  things  to  be  said  against  i\.llan,  and 
two  only — unless,  of  course,  you  consider  drink  an  ob- 
jection. Wit  with  him  was  less  the  moment's  glitter- 
ing flash  than  the  anecdotal  bang;  it  was  a  fine  old 
crusted  blend  which  he  stored  in  the  cellars  of  his  mind 
to  bring  forth  on  suitable  occasions,  as  cob-webby  as  his 
wine.  And  it  tickled  his  vanity  to  have  a  crowd  of 
admiring  youngsters  round  him  to  whom  he  might 
retail  his  anecdotes,  and  play  the  brilliant  raconteur. 
He  had  cronies  of  his  own  years  and  he  was  lordly  and 
jovial  amongst  them — yet  he  wanted  another  entourage. 
He  was  one  of  those  middle-aged  bachelors  who  like  a 
train  of  youngsters  behind  them,  whom  they  favour  in 
return  for  homage.  The  wealthy  man  who  had  been  a 
peasant  lad  delighted  to  act  the  jovial  host  to  sons  of 
petty  magnates  from  his  home.  Batch  after  batch  as 
they  came  up  to  College  were  drawn  around  him — partly 
because  their  homage  pleased  him  and  partly  because 
he  loved  anything  whatever  that  came  out  of  Barbie. 
There  was  no  harm  in  Allan — though  when  his  face  was 
in  repose  you  saw  the  look  in  his  eye  at  times  of  a  man 
defrauding  his  soul.  A  robustious  young  fellow  of  sense 
and  brains  would  have  found  in  this  lover  of  books  and 
a  bottle  not  a  bad  comrade.  But  he  was  the  worst  of 
cronies  for  a  weak  swaggerer  like  Gourlay.  For  Gour- 
lay,  admiring  the  older  man's  jovial  power,  was  led  on 
to  imitate  his  faults,  to  think  them  virtues  and  a  credit 
— and  he  lacked  the  clear  cool  head  that  kept  Allan's 
faults  from  flying  away  with  him. 

At  dinner  that  night  there  were  several  braw  braw  lads 

[177] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GKEEN  SHUTTERS 

of  Barbie  Water.  There  was  Tarmillan  the  doctor  (a 
son  of  Irrendavie),  Logan  the  cashier,  Tozer  the  Eng- 
lishman, old  Partan — a  guileless  and  enquiring  mind — 
and  half-a-dozen  students  raw  from  the  West.  The  stu- 
dents were  of  the  kind  that  goes  up  to  College  with  the 
hay-seed  sticking  in  its  hair.  Two  are  in  a  Colonial 
Cabinet  now,  two  are  in  the  poor-house.     So  they  go. 

Tarmillan  was  the  last  to  arrive.  He  came  in  suck- 
ing his  thumb  into  which  he  had  driven  a  splinter  while 
conducting  an  experiment. 

"  I've  a  morbid  horror  of  lockjaw,"  he  explained. 
"  I  never  get  a  jag  from  a  pin  but  I  see  myself  in  the 
shape  of  a  hoop,  semicircular,  with  my  head  on  one  end 
of  a  table  my  heels  on  the  other,  and  a  doctor  standing 
on  my  navel  trying  to  reduce  the  curvature." 

"  Gosh!  "  said  Partan,  who  was  a  literal  fool,  "  is  that 
the  treatment  they  purshoo?  " 

"  That's  the  treatment!  "  said  Tarmillan,  sizing  up  his 
man.  "  Oh,  it's  a  queer  thing,  lockjaw!  I  remember 
when  I  was  gold-mining  in  Tibet,  one  of  our  carriers 
who  died  of  lockjaw  had  such  a  circumbendibus  in  his 
body,  that  we  froze  him  and  made  him  the  hoop  of  a 
bucket  to  carry  our  water  in.  You  see  he  was  a  thin 
bit  man,  and  iron  was  scarce." 

"Aye  man!  "  cried  Partan,  "  you've  been  in  Tibet?  " 

"Often,"  waved  Tarmillan,  "often!  I  used  to  go 
there  every  summer." 

Partan,  who  liked  to  extend  his  geographical  knowl- 
edge, would  have  talked  of  Tibet  for  the  rest  of  the  even- 
ing— and  Tarmie  would  have  told  him  news — but  Allan 
broke  in. 

"  How's  the  book,  Tarmillan?  "  he  enquired. 

[178] 


CHAPTER  SEVENTEEN 

Tarmillan  was  engaged  on  a  treatise  which  those  who 
are  competent  to  judge  consider  the  best  thing  of  its 
kind  ever  written. 

"  Oh,  don't  ask  me,"  he  writhed.  "  Man,  it's  an  irk- 
some thing  to  write,  and  to  be  asked  about  it  makes  you 
squirm.  It's  almost  as  offensive  to  ask  a  man  when  his 
book  will  be  out,  as  to  ask  a  woman  when  she'll  be  de- 
livered. I'm  glad  you  invited  me — to  get  away  from 
the  confounded  thing.  It's  become  a  blasted  tyrant. 
A  big  M^ork's  a  mistake;  it's  a  monster  that  devours  the 
brain.  I  neglect  my  other  work  for  that  fellow  of  mine; 
he  bags  everything  I  think.  I  never  light  on  a  new 
thing,  but '  Hullo! '  I  cry,  *  here's  an  idea  for  the  book! ' 
If  you  are  engaged  on  a  big  subject  all  your  thinking 
works  into  it  or  out  of  it." 

"  M'  yes,"  said  Logan,  "  but  that's  a  swashing  way  of 
putting  it." 

"  It's  the  danger  of  the  aphorism,"  said  Allan,  "  that 
it  states  too  much  in  trying  to  be  small.  Tozer,  what  do 
you  think?  " 

"  I  never  was  engaged  on  a  big  subject,"  sniffed  Tozer. 

"  We're  aware  o'  that!  "  said  Tarmillan. 

Tozer  went  under,  and  Tarmillan  had  the  table. 
Allan  was  proud  of  him. 

"  Courage  is  the  great  thing,"  said  he.  "  It  often 
succeeds  by  the  mere  show  of  it.  It's  the  timid  man 
that  a  dog  bites.     Run  at  him  and  he  runs." 

He  was  speaking  to  himself  rather  than  the  table, 
admiring  the  courage  that  had  snubbed  Tozer  with  a 
word.  But  his  musing  remark  rang  a  bell  in  young 
Gourlay.  By  Jove  he  had  thought  that  himself,  so  he 
had!    He  was  a  hollow  thing,  he  knew,  but  a  buckram 

[179] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GREEN  SHUTTERS 

pretence  prevented  the  world  from  piercing  to  his 
hollowness.  The  son  of  his  courageous  sire  (whom 
he  equally  admired  and  feared)  had  learned  to  play  the 
game  of  bluff.  A  bold  front  was  half  the  battle.  He 
had  worked  out  his  little  theory,  and  it  was  with  a  shock 
of  pleasure  the  timid  youngster  heard  great  Allan  give 
it  forth.  He  burned  to  let  him  know  that  he  had 
thought  that,  too. 

To  the  youngsters,  fat  of  face  and  fluffy  of  its  circling 
down,  the  talk  was  a  banquet  of  the  gods.  For  the  first 
time  in  their  lives  they  heard  ideas  (such  as  they  were) 
flung  round  them  royally.  They  yearned  to  show  that 
they  were  thinkers,  too.  And  Gourlay  was  fired  with 
the  rest. 

"  I  heard  a  very  good  one  the  other  day  from  old 
Bauldy  Johnston,"  said  Allan,  opening  his  usual  wallet 
of  stories  when  the  dinner  was  in  full  swing. — At  a 
certain  stage  of  the  evening  "  I  heard  a  good  one  "  was 
the  invariable  keynote  of  his  talk.  K  you  displayed 
no  wish  to  hear  the  "  good  one  "  he  was  huffed. — 
"  Bauldy  was  up  in  Edinburgh,"  he  went  on,  "  and  I 
met  him  near  the  Scott  Monument  and  took  him  to 
Lockhart's  for  a  dram.  You  remember  what  a  friend 
he  used  to  be  of  old  Will  Overton.  I  wasn't  aware,  by 
the  bye,  that  Will  was  dead  till  Bauldy  told  me.  '  lie 
ivas  a  great  felloiv  my  friend  Will,'  he  rang  out  in  yon 
deep  voice  of  his.  '  The  tliunib  marh  of  Jiis  Maker  was 
wet  in  the  clay  of  him'  Man,  it  made  a  quiver  go  down 
my  spine." 

"  Oh,  Bauldy  has  been  a  kenned  phrase-maker  for  the 
last  forty  year,"  said  Tarmillan.  "  But  every  other 
Scots  peasant  has  the  gift.     To  hear  Englishmen  talk, 

[180] 


CHAPTER   SEVENTEEN 

you  would  think  Carlyle  was  unique  for  the  word  that 
sends  the  picture  home — they  give  the  man  the  credit 
of  his  race.  But  I've  heard  fifty  things  better  than  '  wil- 
lowy man/  in  the  stable  a-hame  on  a  wat  day  in  hairst — 
fifty  things  better! — from  men  just  sitting  on  the  corn- 
kists  and  ehowing  beans." 

"  I  know  a  better  one  than  that,"  said  Allan.  Tar- 
millan  had  told  no  story,  you  observe,  but  Allan  was  so 
accustomed  to  saying  "  I  know  a  better  one  than  that," 
that  it  escaped  him  before  he  was  aware.  "  I  remem- 
ber when  Bauldy  went  ofi'  to  Paris  on  the  spree.  He 
kept  his  mouth  shut  when  he  came  back,  for  he  was 
rather  ashamed  o'  the  outburst.  But  the  bodies  were 
keen  to  hear.  '  What's  the  incense  like  in  Notre  Dame  ?  ' 
said  Johnny  Coe  with  his  e'en  big.  'Burning  stinh!' 
said  Bauldy." 

"  I  can  cap  that  with  a  better  one,  still,"  said  Tarmil- 
lan,  who  wasn't  to  be  done  by  any  man.  "  I  was  with 
Bauldy  when  he  quarrelled  Tam  Gibb  of  Hooehan-doe. 
Hoochan-doe's  a  yelling  ass,  and  he  threatened  Bauldy 
— oh,  he  would  do  this,  and  he  would  do  that,  and  he 
would  do  the  other  thing.  '  Damn  ye,  would  ye  threaten 
me?  '  cried  Bauldy.  '  I'll  gar  your  hrahis  jaup  red  to  the 
heavens!'  And,  I  'clare  to  God,  sirs,  a  nervous  man 
looked  up  to  see  if  the  clouds  werena  spattered  with 
the  gore!  " 

Tozer  cleared  a  sarcastic  windpipe. 

"  Why  do  you  clear  your  throat  like  that?  "  said  Tar- 
millan — "  like  a  craw  with  the  croup,  on  a  bare  branch, 
against  a  grey  sky  in  November!  If  I  had  a  throat  like 
yours,  I'd  cut  it  and  be  done  wi't." 

"  I  wonder  what's  the  cause  of  that  extraordinary 

[181] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GREEN  SHUTTERS 

vividness  in  the  speech  of  the  Scotch  peasantry?  "  aaid 
Allan — more  to  keep  the  blades  from  bickering  than 
from  any  wish  to  know. 

"  It  comes  from  a  power  of  seeing  things  vividly  in- 
side your  mind,"  said  a  voice,  timorous  and  Avheezy, 
away  down  the  table. 

What  cockerel  was  this  crowing? 
•    They  turned  and  beheld  the  blushing  Gourlay. 

But  Tarmillan  and  Tozer  were  at  it  again,  and  he 
was  snubbed.  Jimmy  Wilson  sniggered,  and  the  other 
youngsters  enjoyed  his  discomfiture.  Huh!  What 
right  has  lie  to  set  up  his  pipe? 

His  shirt  stuck  to  his  back.  He  would  have  liked  the 
ground  to  open  and  swallow  him. 

He  gulped  a  huge  swill  of  whiskey  to  cover  his  vexa- 
tion— and,  oh,  the  mighty  difference!  A  sudden  cour- 
age flooded  his  veins.  He  turned  with  a  scowl  on  Wil- 
son, and,  "What  the  devil  are  you  sniggering  at?  "  he 
growled.  Logan,  the  only  senior  who  marked  the  by- 
play, thought  him  a  hardy  young  spunkie. 

The  moment  the  whiskey  had  warmed  the  cockles  of 
his  heart,  Gourlay  ceased  to  care  a  rap  for  the  sniggerers. 
Drink  deadened  his  nervous  perception  of  the  critics 
on  his  right  and  left,  and  set  him  free  to  follow  his  idea 
undisturbed.  It  was  an  idea  he  had  long  cherished — 
being  one  of  the  few  that  ever  occurred  to  him.  He 
rarely  made  phrases  himself — though,  curiously  enough, 
his  father  often  did  without  knowing  it — the  harsh 
grind  of  his  character  producing  a  flash.  But  Gourlay 
was  aware  of  his  uncanny  gift  of  visualization — or  of 
"  seeing  things  in  the  inside  of  his  head,"  as  he  called  it 
— and  vanity  prompted  the  inference,  that  this  was  the 

[182] 


CHAPTEK  SEVENTEEN 

faculty  that  sprang  the  metaphor.  His  theory  was  now 
clear  and  eloquent  before  him.  He  was  realizing  for  the 
first  time  in  his  life  (with  a  sudden  joy  in  the  discovery) 
the  effect  of  whiskey  to  unloose  the  brain;  sentences 
went  hurling  through  his  brain  with  a  fluency  that 
thrilled.  If  he  had  the  ear  of  the  company,  now  he  had 
the  drink  to  hearten  him,  he  would  show  Wilson  and  the 
rest  that  he  wasn't  such  a  blasted  fool!  In  a  room  by 
himself  he  would  have  spouted  to  the  empty  air. 

Some  such  point  he  had  reached  in  the  hurrying  jum- 
ble of  his  thoughts,  when  Allan  addressed  him. 

Allan  did  not  mean  his  guest  to  be  snubbed.  He  was 
a  gentleman  at  heart,  not  a  cad  like  Tozer;  and  this  boy 
was  the  son  of  a  girl  whose  laugh  he  remembered  in  the 
gloamings  at  Tenshillingland. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  John,"  he  said  in  heavy  benevo- 
lence— he  had  reached  that  stage — "  I  beg  your  pardon. 
I'm  afraid  you  was  interrupted." 

Gourlay  felt  his  heart  a  lump  in  his  throat,  but  he 
rushed  into  speech. 

"  Metaphor  comes  from  the  power  of  seeing  things 
in  the  inside  of  your  head,"  said  the  unconscious  disci- 
ple of  Aristotle — "  seeing  them  so  vivid  that  you  see  the 
likeness  between  them.  When  Bauldy  Johnston  said 
*  the  thumb-mark  of  his  Maker  was  wet  in  the  clay  of 
him,'  he  saw  the  print  of  a  thumb  in  wet  clay,  and  he 
saw  the  Almighty  making  a  man  out  of  mud,  the  way  He 
used  to  do  in  the  Garden  of  Eden  langsyne — so  Bauldy 
flashed  the  two  ideas  together  and  the  metaphor  sprang! 
A  man'll  never  make  phrases  unless  he  can  see  things 
in  the  middle  of  his  brain.  I  can  see  things  in  the  mid- 
dle of  my  brain,"  he  went  on  cockily — ''  anything  I  want 

[  183  ] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GREEK  SHUTTERS 

to!     I  don't  need  to  shut  my  eyes,  either.     They  just 
come  up  before  me." 

"  Man,  you're  young  to  have  noticed  these  things, 
John,"  said  Jock  Allan.  "  I  never  reasoned  it  out  be- 
fore, but  I'm  sure  you're  in  the  right  o't." 

He  spoke  more  warmly  than  he  felt,  because  Gourlay 
had  flushed  and  panted  and  stammered  (in  spite  of  in- 
spiring bold  John  Barleycorn)  while  airing  his  little 
theory,  and  Allan  wanted  to  cover  him.  But  Gourlay 
took  it  as  a  tribute  to  his  towering  mind.  Oh,  but  he 
was  the  proud  mannikin.  "  Pass  the  watter!  "  he  said 
to  Jimmy  Wilson,  and  Jimmy  passed  it  meekly. 

Logan  took  a  fancy  to  Gourlay  on  the  spot.  He  was 
a  slow  sly  cosy  man,  with  a  sideward  laugh  in  his  eye,  a 
humid  gleam.  And  because  his  blood  was  so  genial  and  so 
slow,  he  liked  to  make  up  to  brisk  young  fellows,  whose 
wilder  outbursts  might  amuse  him.  They  quickened 
his  sluggish  blood.  No  bad  fellow,  and  good-natured 
in  his  heavy  way,  he  was  what  the  Scotch  call  a  "  slug 
for  the  drink."  A  "  slug  for  the  drink  "  is  a  man  who 
soaks  and  never  succumbs.  Logan  was  the  more  dan- 
gerous a  crony  on  that  account.  Remaining  sober  while 
others  grew  drunk,  he  was  always  ready  for  another 
dram,  always  ready  with  an  oily  chuckle  for  the  sploring 
nonsense  of  his  satellites.  He  would  see  them  home  in 
the  small  hours,  taking  no  mean  advantage  over  them, 
never  scorning  them  because  they  "  couldn't  carry  it," 
only  laughing  at  their  daft  vagaries.  And  next  day  he 
would  gurgle:  "  So-and-so  was  screwed  last  night,  and, 
man,  if  you  had  heard  his  talk!  "  Logan  had  enjoyed  it. 
He  hated  to  drink  by  himself,  and  liked  a  splurging 
youngster  with  whom  to  go  the  rounds. 

[  184  ] 


CHAPTER  SEVENTEEN 

He  was  attracted  to  Gourlay  by  the  manly  way  he 
tossed  his  drink,  and  by  the  false  fire  it  put  into  him. 
But  he  made  no  immediate  advance.  He  sat  smiling  in 
creeshy  benevolence,  beaming  on  Gourlay  but  saying 
nothing.  When  the  party  was  ended,  however,  he  made 
up  to  him  going  through  the  door. 

"  I'm  glad  to  have  met  you,  Mr.  Gourlay,"  said  he. 
"  Won't  you  come  round  to  the  Howff  for  a  while?  " 

"  The  Howff?  "  said  Gourlay. 

"Yes,"  said  Logan,  "haven't  ye  heard  o't!  It's  a 
snug  bit  house,  wliere  some  of  the  West  Country  billies 
foregather  for  a  nicht  at  e'en.  Oh,  nothing  to  speak  of, 
ye  know — just  a  dram  and  a  joke  to  pass  the  time  now 
and  then!  " 

"Aha! "  laughed  Gourlay,  "  there's  worse  than  a 
drink,  by  Jove.     It  puts  smeddum  in  your  blood!  " 

Logan  nipped  the  guard  of  his  arm  in  heavy  playful- 
ness, and  led  him  to  the  Howff. 


[  185] 


XVIII 

Young  Govirlay  had  found  a  means  of  escaping  from 
his  foolish  mind.  By  the  beginning  of  his  second  ses- 
sion he  was  as  able  a  toper  as  a  publican  could  wish. 
The  somewhat  sordid  joviality  of  Allan's  ring,  their  wit- 
combats  that  were  somewhat  crude,  appeared  to  him  the 
very  acme  of  social  intercourse.  To  emulate  Logan  and 
Allan  was  his  aim.  But  drink  appealed  to  him  in  many 
ways,  besides.  Now  when  his  too-apprehensive  nerves 
were  frightened  by  bugbears  in  his  lonely  room  he  could 
be  off  to  the  Howff  and  escape  them.  And  drink  in- 
spired him  with  false  courage  to  sustain  his  pose  as  a 
hardy  rollicker.  He  had  acquired  a  kind  of  prestige 
since  the  night  of  Allan's  party,  and  two  of  the  fellows 
whom  he  met  there,  Armstrong  and  Gillespie, became  his 
friends  at  College  and  the  Howff.  He  swaggered  before 
them  as  he  had  swaggered  at  school  both  in  Barbie  and 
Skeighan — and  now  there  was  no  Swipey  Broon  to  cut 
him  over  the  coxcomb.  Armstrong  and  Gillespie — 
though  they  saw  through  him — let  him  run  on,  for  he 
was  not  bad  fun  when  he  was  splurging.  He  found,  too, 
when  with  his  cronies  that  drink  unlocked  his  mind,  and 
gave  a  free  flow  to  his  ideas.  Nervous  men  are  often 
impotent  of  speech  from  very  excess  of  perception — they 
realize  not  merely  what  they  mean  to  say,  but  with  the 
nervous  antenna  of  their  minds  they  feel  the  attitude 
of  every  auditor.     Distracted  by  lateral  perceptions  from 

[  186  i 


CHAPTER  EIGHTEEN 

the  point  ahead,  they  blunder,  where  blunter  minds 
would  go  forward  undismayed.  That  was  the  experi- 
ence of  young  Gourlay.  If  he  tried  to  talk  freely  when 
sober,  he  always  grew  confused.  But  drink  deadened 
the  outer  rim  of  his  perception  and  left  it  the  clearer  in 
the  middle  for  its  concentration.  In  plainer  language, 
when  he  was  drunk,  he  was  less  afraid  of  being  laughed 
at,  and  free  of  that  fear  he  was  a  better  speaker.  He 
was  driven  to  drink,  then,  by  every  weakness  of  his  char- 
acter. As  nervous  hypochondriac,  as  would-be  swag- 
gerer, as  a  dullard  requiring  stimulus,  he  found  that 
drink,  to  use  his  own  language,  gave  him  "  smeddum!  " 

With  his  second  year  he  began  the  study  of  philoso- 
phy, and  that  added  to  his  woes.  He  had  nerves 
to  feel  the  Big  Conundrum,  but  not  the  brains  to  solve 
it — small  blame  to  him  for  that  since  philosophers  have 
cursed  each  other  black  in  the  face  over  it  for  the  last 
five  thousand  years.  But  it  worried  him.  The  strange 
and  sinister  detail  of  the  world,  that  had  always  been  a 
horror  to  his  mind,  became  more  horrible,  beneath  the 
stimulus  of  futile  thought.  But  whiskey  was  the  mighty 
cure.  He  was  the  gentleman  who  gained  notoriety  on  a 
memorable  occasion,  by  exclaiming — "  Metaphysics  be 
damned:  let  us  drink!  "  Omar  and  other  bards  have 
expressed  the  same  conclusion  in  more  dulcet  wise. 
But  Gourlay's  was  equally  sincere.  How  sincere  is 
another  question. 

Curiously,  an  utterance  of  "Auld  Tam,"  one  of  his 
professors,  half  confirmed  him  in  his  evil  ways. 

"  I  am  speaking  now,"  said  Tam,  "  of  the  comfort  of 
a  true  philosopliy,  less  of  its  higher  aspect  than  its  com- 
fort to  the  mind  of  man.     Physically,  each  man  is  high- 

[  187  ] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GREEN  SHUTTERS 

est  on  the  globe;  intellectually,  the  philosopher  alone 
dominates  the  world.  To  him  are  only  two  entities  that 
matter,  himself  and  the  Eternal;  or,  if  another,  it  is  his 
fellow-man,  whom  serving  he  serves  the  ultimate  of 
being.  But  he  is  master  of  the  outer  world.  The  mind, 
indeed,  in  its  first  blank  outlook  on  life  is  terrified  by 
the  demoniac  force  of  nature  and  the  swarming  misery 
of  man;  by  the  vast  totality  of  things,  the  cold  remote- 
ness of  the  starry  heavens  and  the  threat  of  the  devour- 
ing seas.    It  is  puny  in  their  midst." 

Gourlay  woke  up,  and  the  sweat  broke  on  him.  Great 
Heaven,  had  Tam  been  through  it,  too! 

"At  that  stage,"  quoth  the  wise  man,  "  the  mind  is 
dispersed  in  a  thousand  perceptions  and  a  thousand 
fears;  there  is  no  central  greatness  in  the  soul.  It  is 
assailed  by  terrors  which  men  sunk  in  the  material  never 
seem  to  feel.  Phenomena,  uninformed  by  thought,  be- 
wilder and  depress." 

"  Just  like  me!  "  thought  Gourlay,  and  listened  with 
a  thrilling  interest  because  it  was  "  just  like  him." 

"But  the  labyrinth,"  said  Tam,  with  a  ring  in  his 
voice  as  of  one  who  knew — "  the  labyrinth  cannot  appal 
the  man  who  has  found  a  clue  to  its  windings.  A  mind 
that  has  attained  to  thought  lives  in  itself,  and  the  world 
becomes  its  slave.  Its  formerly  distracted  powers  rally 
home;  it  is  central,  possessing  not  possessed.  The  world 
no  longer  frightens,  being  understood.  Its  sinister  fea- 
tures are  accidents  that  will  pass  away,  and  they  gradu- 
ally cease  to  be  observed.  For  real  thinkers  know  the 
value  of  a  wise  indifference.  ~  And  that  is  why  they  are 
often  the  most  genial  men;  unworried  by  the  transient, 
they  can  smile  and  wait,  sure  of  their  eternal  aim.    The 

[188] 


CHAPTER  EIGPITEEN 

man  to  whom  the  infinite  beckons  is  not  to  be  driven 
from  his  mystic  quest  by  the  ambush  of  a  temporal  fear 
— there  is  no  fear;  it  has  ceased  to  exist.  .That  is  the 
comfort  of  a  true  philosophy — if  a  men  accepts  it  not 
merely  mechanically,  from  another,  but  feels  it  in 
breath  and  blood  and  every  atom  of  his  being.  With 
a  warm  surety  in  his  heart,  he  is  undaunted  by  the 
outer  world.  That,  gentlemen,  is  what  thought  can 
do  for  a  man." 

"  By  Jove,"  thought  Gourlay,  *'  that's  what  whiskey 
does  for  me!  " 

And  that,  on  a  lower  level,  was  what  whiskey  did. 
He  had  no  conception  of  what  Tam  really  meant — there 
were  people  indeed  who  used  to  think  that  Tam  never 
knew  what  he  meant  himself.  They  were  as  little  able  as 
Gourlay  to  appreciate  the  mystic,  through  the  radiant 
haze  of  whose  mind  thoughts  loomed  on  you  sudden  and 
big,  like  mountain  tops  in  a  sunny  mist,  the  grander  for 
their  dimness.  But  Gourlay,  though  he  could  not  under- 
stand, felt  the  fortitude  of  whiskey  was  somehow  akin 
to  the  fortitude  described.  In  the  increased  vitality  it 
gave,  he  was  able  to  tread  down  the  world.  If  he  walked 
on  a  wretched  day  in  a  wretched  street,  when  he  hap- 
pened to  be  sober,  his  mind  was  hither  and  yon  in  a 
thousand  perceptions  and  a  thousand  fears,  fastening  to 
(and  fastened  to)  each  squalid  thing  around.  But  with 
whiskey  humming  in  his  blood,  he  paced  onward  in  a 
happy  dream.  The  wretched  puddles  by  the  way,  the 
frowning  rookeries  where  misery  squalled,  the  melan- 
choly noises  of  the  street,  were  passed  unheeded  by. 
His  distracted  powers  rallied  home;  he  was  concentrate, 
his  own  man  again,  the  hero  of  his  musing  mind.     For, 

[189] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GREEN  SHUTTEES 

like  all  weak  men  of  a  vivid  fancy,  he  was  constantly 
framing  dramas  of  which  he  was  the  towering  lord.  The 
weakling  who  never  "  downed "  men  in  reality,  was 
always  "  downing  "  them  in  thought.  His  imaginary 
triumphs  consoled  him  for  his  actual  rebuffs.  As  he 
walked  in  a  tipsy  dream,  he  was  "  standing  up  "  to  some- 
body, hurling  his  father's  phrases  at  him,  making  short 
work  of  him!  If  imagination  paled,  the  nearest  tavern 
supplied  a  remedy,  and  flushed  it  to  a  radiant  glow. 
Whereupon  he  had  become  the  master  of  his  world,  and 
not  its  slave. 

"  Just  imaigine,"  he  thought,  "  whiskey  doing  for  me 
what  philosophy  seems  to  do  for  Tarn.  It's  a  wonderful 
thing,  the  drink!  " 

His  second  session  wore  on,  and  when  near  its  close, 
Tam  gave  out  the  subject  for  the  Raeburn. 

The  Raeburn  was  a  poor  enough  prize,  a  few  books  for 
an  "  essay  in  the  picturesque,"  but  it  had  a  peculiar 
interest  for  the  folk  of  Barbie.  Twenty  years  ago  it  was 
won  four  years  in  succession  by  men  from  the  valley;  and 
the  unusual  run  of  luck  fixed  it  in  their  minds.  There- 
after when  an  unsuccessful  candidate  returned  to  his 
home,  he  was  sure  to  be  asked  very  pointedly,  "  Who  won 
the  Raeburn  the  year?  "  to  rub  into  him  their  perception 
that  he  at  least  had  been  a  failure.  A  bodie  would 
dander  slowly  up,  saying,  "  Aye,  man,  ye've  won  hame!  " 
then,  having  mused  awhile,  would  casually  ask,  "  By- 
the-bye,  who  won  the  Raeburn  the  year? — Oh,  it  was  a 
Perthshire  man!  It  used  to  come  our  airt,  but  we  seem 
to  have  lost  the  knack  o't!  Oh,  yes,  sir.  Barbie  bred 
writers  in  those  days,  but  the  breed  seems  to  have 
decayed."     Then  he  would  murmur  dreamily,  as  if  talk- 

[190] 


CHAPTER  EIGHTEEN 

ing  to  himself,  "  Jock  Goudie  was  the  last  that  got  it 
hereaway.     But  lie  was  a  clever  chap." 

The  caustic  bodie  would  dander  away  with  a  grin, 
leaving  a  poor  writhing  soul.  When  he  reached  the 
Cross,  he  would  tell  the  Deacon  blithely  of  the  "  fine  one 
he  had  given  him,"  and  the  Deacon  would  lie  in  wait  to 
give  him  a  fine  one,  too.  In  Barbie,  at  least,  your  re- 
turning student  is  never  met  at  the  station  with  a  brass 
band,  whatever  may  happen  in  more  emotional  districts 
of  the  North,  where  it  pleases  them  to  shed  the  tear. 

"  An  Arctic  Night "  was  the  inspiring  theme  which 
Tam  set  for  the  Raeburn. 

"A  very  appropriate  subject!  "  laughed  the  fellows; 
"  quite  in  the  style  of  his  own  lectures."  For  Tam, 
though  wise  and  a  humourist,  had  his  prosy  hours.  He 
used  to  lecture  on  the  fifteen  characteristics  of  Lady 
Macbeth  (so  he  parcelled  the  unhappy  Queen),  and  he 
would  announce  quite  gravely,  "  We  will  now  approach 
the  discussion  of  the  eleventh  feature  of  the  lady." 

Gourlay  had  a  shot  at  the  Eaeburn.  He  could  not 
bring  a  radiant  fulness  of  mind  to  bear  upon  his  task 
(it  was  not  in  him  to  bring),  but  his  morbid  fancy  set  to 
work  of  its  own  accord.  He  saw  a  lonely  little  town  far 
off  upon  the  verge  of  Lapland  night,  leagues  and  leagues 
across  a  darkling  plain,  dark  itself  and  little  and  lonely 
in  the  gloomy  splendour  of  a  Northern  sky.  A  ship  put 
to  sea,  and  Gourlay  heard  in  his  ears  the  skirl  of  the  man 
who  went  overboard — struck  dead  by  the  icy  water  on 
his  brow,  which  smote  the  brain  like  a  tomahawk. 

He  put  his  hand  to  his  own  brow  when  he  wrote  that, 
and,  "  Yes,"  he  cried  eagerly,  "  it  would  be  the  cold 
would  kill  the  brain!    Ooh-ooh',  how  it  would  go  in!  " 

[191] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GEEEN  SHUTTEKS 

A  world  of  ice  groaned  round  him  in  the  night;  bergs 
ground  on  each  other  and  were  rent  in  pain;  he  heard 
the  splash  of  great  fragments  tumbled  in  the  deep,  and 
felt  the  waves  of  their  distant  falling  lift  the  vessel  be- 
neath him  in  the  darkness.  To  the  long  desolate  night 
came  a  desolate  dawn,  and  eyes  were  dazed  by  the  encir- 
cling whiteness;  yet  there  flashed  green  slanting  chasms 
in  the  ice,  and  towering  pinnacles  of  sudden  rose,  lonely 
and  far  away.  An  unknown  sea  beat  upon  an  unknown 
shore,  and  the  ship  drifted  on  the  pathless  waters,  a 
white  dead  man  at  the  helm. 

"  Yes,  by  Heaven,"  cried  Gourlay,  "  I  can  see  it  all, 
I  can  see  it  all — that  fellow  standing  at  the  helm,  frozen 
white  and  as  stiff's  an  icicle!  " 

Yet,  do  what  he  might,  he  was  unable  to  fill  more 
than  half  a  dozen  small  pages.  He  hesitated  whether 
he  should  send  them  in,  and  held  them  in  his  inky  fin- 
gers, thinking  he  would  burn  them.  He  was  full  of  pity 
for  his  own  inability.  "  I  wish  I  was  a  clever  chap,"  he 
said  mournfully. 

"Ach,  well,  I'll  try  my  luck,"  he  muttered  at  last, 
"  though  Tam  may  guy  me  before  the  whole  class,  for 
doing  so  little  o't." 

The  Professor,  however  (unlike  the  majority  of 
Scotch  Professors),  rated  quality  higher  than  quantity. 

"  I  have  learned  a  great  deal  myself,"  he  announced 
on  the  last  day  of  the  session,  "  I  have  learned  a  great 
deal  myself  from  the  papers  sent  in  on  the  subject  of 
an  '  Arctic  Night.'  " 

"  Hear,  hear!  "  said  an  insolent  student  at  the  back. 

"Where,  where?"  said  the  Professor,  "stand  up, 
sir!" 

[192] 


CHAPTER  EIGHTEEN 

A  gigantic  Borderer  rose  blushing  into  view,  and 
was  greeted  with  howls  of  derision  by  his  fellows.  Tarn 
eyed  him,  and  he  winced. 

"  You  will  apologize  in  my  private  room  at  the  end  of 
the  hour,"  said  Aquinas,  as  the  students  used  to  call 
him.     "  Learn  that  this  is  not  a  place  to  bray  in." 

The  giant  slunk  down,  trying  to  hide  himself. 

"  Yes,"  said  Tam,  "  I  have  learned  what  a  poor  sense 
of  proportion  some  of  you  students  seem  to  have.  It 
was  not  to  see  who  could  write  the  most,  but  who  could 
write  the  best,  that  I  set  the  theme.  One  gentleman — 
he  has  been  careful  to  give  me  his  full  name  and  ad- 
dress— "  twinkled  Tam,  3Jid  picking  up  a  huge  manu- 
script he  read  it  from  the  outer  page — "  Mr.  Alexander 
MacTavish,  of  Benmacstronachan,  near  Auchnapeter- 
hoolish,  in  che  island  of  South  Uist,  has  sent  me  in  no 
less  than  a  hundred  and  fifty-three  closely  written  pages! 
I  daresay  it's  the  size  of  the  adjectives  he  uses  that  makes 
the  thing  so  heavy,"  quoth  Tam,  and  dropped  it  thud- 
ding on  his  desk.  "  Life  is  short,  the  art  of  the  Mac- 
Tavish long,  and  to  tell  the  truth,  gentlemen  " — he 
gloomed  at  them  humorously — "  to  tell  the  truth,  I 
stuck  in  the  middle  o't!  "  (Roars  of  laughter,  and  a 
reproving  voice,  "  Oh,  ta  pold  j\IacTa-avish!  "  whereat 
tliere  was  pandemonium).  MacTavish  was  heard  to 
groan,  "  Oh,  why  tid  I  leave  my  home !  "  to  which  a 
voice  responded  in  mocking  antiphone,  "  Why  tid  you 
cross  ta  teep?"  The  noise  they  made  was  heard  at 
Holyrood. 

When  the  tumult  and  the  shouting  died,  Tam  resumed 
with  a  quiver  in  his  voice,  for  "  ta  pold  MacTavish  "  had 
tickled  him  too.     "  Now,  gentlemen,"  he  said,  "  I  don't 

[193] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GKEEN  SHUTTEES 

judge  essays  by  their  weight,  though  I'm  told  they 
sometimes  pursue  that  method  in  Glasgow!  " 

(Groans  for  the  rival  University,  cries  of  "  Oh-oh- 
oh!  "  and  a  weary  voice,  "  Please  sir,  don't  mention  that 
place — it  makes  me  feel  quite  ill.") 

The  Professor  allayed  the  tumult  with  dissuasive 
palm. 

"  I  believe,"  he  said  drily,  "  you  call  that  noise  of 
yours  '  the  College  Tramp,'  in  the  Senatus  we  speak  o't 
as  '  the  Cuddies'  Trudge.' — Now,  gentlemen,  I'm  not 
unwilling  to  allow  a  little  noise  on  the  last  day  of  the 
session,  but  really  you  must  behave  more  quietly. — So 
little  does  that  method  of  judging  essays  commend  itself 
to  me,  I  may  tell  you,  that  the  sketch  which  I  consider 
the  best  barely  runs  to  half  a  dozen  short  pages." 

Young  Gourlay's  heart  gave  a  leap  within  him;  he 
felt  it  thudding  on  his  ribs.  The  skin  crept  on  him, 
and  he  breathed  with  quivering  nostrils.  Gillespie  won- 
dered why  his  breast  heaved. 

"  It's  a  curious  sketch,"  said  the  Professor.  ''  It  con- 
tains a  serious  blunder  in  grammar,  and  several  mis- 
takes in  spelling,  but  it  shows,  in  some  ways,  a  wonder- 


„iivii  iiiii 


f  ul  imagination 


"  Ho,  ho!  "  thought  Gourlay. 


a 


Of  course  there  are  various  kinds  of  imagination," 
said  Tam.  "  In  its  lowest  form  it  merely  recalls  some- 
thing which  the  eyes  have  already  seen,  and  brings  it 
vividly  before  the  mind.  A  higher  form  pictures  some- 
thing whicli  you  never  saw,  but  only  conceived  as  a  pos- 
sible existence.  Then  there's  the  imagination  which 
not  only  sees  but  hears — actually  hears  what  a  man 
would  say  on  a  given  occasion,  and  entering  into  his 

[194] 


CHAPTER  EIGHTEEN 

blood,  tells  you  exactly  M^hy  he  does  it.  The  highest 
form  is  both  creative  and  consecrative,  if  I  may  use  the 
word,  merging  in  diviner  thought.  It  irradiates  the 
world.  Of  that  high  power  there  is  no  evidence  in  the 
essay  before  me.  To  be  sure  there  was  little  occasion 
for  its  use." 

Young  Gourlay's  thermometer  went  down. 

"  Indeed,"  said  Aquinas,  "  there's  a  curious  want  of 
bigness  in  the  sketch — no  large  nobility  of  phrase.  It 
is  written  in  gaspy  little  sentences,  and  each  sentence 
begins  '  and  ' — '  and  ' — '  and,'  like  a  schoolboy's  narra- 
tive. It's  as  if  a  number  of  impressions  had  seized  the 
writer's  mind,  which  he  jotted  down  hurriedly,  lest  they 
should  escape  him.  But,  just  because  it's  so  little  wordy, 
it  gets  the  effect  of  the  thing — faith,  sirs,  it's  right  on  to 
the  end  of  it  every  time!  The  writing  of  some  folk  is 
nothing  but  a  froth  of  words — lucky  if  it  glistens  with- 
out, like  a  blobber  of  iridescent  foam.  But  in  this 
sketch  there's  a  perception  at  the  back  of  every  sen- 
tence. It  displays,  indeed,  too  nervous  a  sense  of  the 
external  world." 

"  Name,  name!  "  cried  the  students,  who  were  being 
deliberately  worked  by  Tam  to  a  high  pitch  of  cu- 
riosity. 

"  I  would  strongly  impress  on  the  writer,"  said  the 
shepherd,  heedless  of  his  bleating  sheep,  "  I  would 
strongly  impress  on  the  writer,  to  set  himself  down  for  a 
spell  of  real,  hard  solid,  and  deliberate  thought.  That 
almost  morbid  perception,  with  philosophy  to  back  it, 
might  create  an  opulent  and  vivid  mind.  Without  phi- 
losophy, it  would  simply  be  a  curse.  With  philosophy,  it 
would  bring  thought  the  material  to  work  on.     Without 

[  195  ] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GREEN  SHUTTEES 

philosophy,  it  would  simply  distract  and  irritate  the 
mind." 

"Name,  name!  "  cried  the  fellows. 
The  winner  of  the  Eaeburn,"  said  Thomas  Aquinas, 

is  Mr.  John  Gourlay." 


« 


Gourlay  and  his  friends  made  for  the  nearest  public 
house.  The  occasion,  they  thought,  justified  a  drink. 
The  others  chafl^ed  Gourlay  about  Tam's  advice. 

"  You  know.  Jack,"  said  Gillespie,  mimicking  the 
sage,  "  what  you  have  got  to  do  next  summer  is  to  set 
yourself  down  for  a  spell  of  real,  hard,  solid  and  deliber- 
ate thought.    That  was  Tam's  advice,  you  know." 

"  Him  and  his  advice !  "  said  Gourlay. 


[196] 


XIX 

There  were  only  four  other  passengers  dropped  by 
the  eleven  o'clock  express  at  Skeighan  station,  and,  as 
it  happened,  young  Gourlay  knew  them  all.  They  were 
petty  merchants  of  the  neighbourhood  whom  he  had 
often  seen  about  Barbie.  The  sight  of  their  remem- 
bered faces,  as  he  stepped  on  to  the  platform,  gave  him 
a  delightful  sense  that  he  was  nearing  home.  He  had 
passed  from  the  careless  world  where  he  was  nobody  at 
all,  to  the  familiar  circle  where  he  was  a  somebody,  a 
mentioned  man,  and  the  son  of  a  mentioned  man — young 
Mr.  Gourlay! 

He  had  a  feeling  of  superiority  to  the  others,  too,  be- 
cause they  were  mere  local  journeyers  while  he  had 
travelled  all  the  way  from  mighty  Edinburgh  by  the  late 
express.  He  was  returning  from  the  outer  world  while 
they  were  bits  of  bodies  who  had  only  been  to  Fechars. 
As  Edinburgh  was  to  Fechars  so  was  he  to  them.  Eound 
him  was  the  halo  of  distance  and  the  mystery  of  night- 
travelling.     He  felt  big. 

"Have  you  a  match,  Eobert?  "  he  asked  very  gra- 
ciously of  Robin  Gregg,  one  of  the  porters  whom  he 
knew.  Getting  his  match,  he  lit  a  cigarette;  and  when 
it  was  lit,  after  one  quick  puff,  turned  it  swiftly  round 
to  examine  its  burning  end.  "  Rotten! "  he  said,  and 
threw  it  away  to  light  another.  The  porters  were  watch- 
ing him,  and  he  knew  it.     When  the  station-master  ap- 

[197] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GKEEN  SHUTTERS 

peared  yawning  from  his  office,  as  lie  was  passing 
through  the  gate,  and  asked  who  it  was,  it  flattered  his 
vanity  to  hear  Robin's  answer,  that  it  was  "  young  Mr. 
Gourlay  of  Barbie,  Just  back  from  the  Univ-ai-rsity!  " 

He  had  been  so  hot  for  home  that  he  had  left  Edin- 
burgh at  twilight,  too  eager  to  wait  for  the  morrow. 
There  was  no  train  for  Barbie  at  this  hour  of  the  night; 
and,  of  course,  there  was  no  gig  to  meet  him.  Even  if 
he  had  sent  word  of  his  coming:  "  There's  no  need  for 
travelling  so  late,"  old  Gourlay  would  have  growled — 
"let  him  shank  it!  We're  in  no  hurry  to  have  him 
home." 

He  set  off  briskly,  eager  to  see  his  mother  and  tell  her 
he  had  won  the  Eaeburn.  The  consciousness  of  his 
achievement  danced  in  his  blood,  and  made  the  road 
light  to  his  feet.  His  thoughts  were  not  with  the  coun- 
try round  him,  but  entirely  in  the  moment  of  his  en- 
trance, when  he  should  proclaim  his  triumph,  with 
proud  enjoyment  of  his  mother's  pride.  His  fancy 
swept  to  his  journey's  end,  and  took  his  body  after,  so 
that  the  long  way  was  as  nothing,  annihilate  by  the  leap 
forward  of  his  mind. 

He  was  too  vain,  too  full  of  himself  and  his  petty 
triumph,  to  have  room  for  the  beauty  of  the  night.  The 
sky  was  one  sea  of  lit  cloud,  foamy  ridge  upon  ridge 
over  all  the  heavens,  and  each  wave  was  brimming  with 
its  own  whiteness,  seeming  unborrowed  of  the  moon. 
Through  one  peep-hole,  and  only  one,  shone  a  distant 
star,  a  faint  white  speck  far  away,  dimmed  by  the  nearer 
splendours  of  the  sky.  Sometimes  the  thinning  edge  of 
a  cloud  brightened  in  spume,  and  round  the  brightness 
came  a  circle  of  umber,  making  a  window  of  fantastic 

[198] 


CHAPTER   NINETEEIT 

glory  for  Dian  the  queen;  there  her  white  vision  peeped 
for  a  moment  on  the  world — and  the  next  she  was  hid 
behind  a  fleecy  veil,  witching  the  heavens.  Gourlay 
was  alone  with  the  wonder  of  the  night.  The  light  from 
above  him  was  softened  in  a  myriad  boughs,  no  longer 
mere  light  and  cold,  but  a  spirit  indwelling  as  their  soul, 
and  they  were  boughs  no  longer  but  a  woven  dream.  He 
walked  beneath  a  shadowed  glory.  But  he  was  dead  to 
it  all.  One  only  fact  possessed  him.  He  had  won  the 
Eaeburn,  he  had  won  the  Eaeburn!  The  road  flew 
beneath  him. 

Almost  before  he  was  aware,  the  mean  grey  streets  of 
Barbie  had  clipped  him  round.  He  stopped,  panting 
from  the  hurry  of  his  walk,  and  looked  at  the  quiet 
houses,  all  still  among  the  gloom.  He  realized  with  a 
sudden  pride  that  he  alone  was  in  conscious  possession 
of  the  town.  Barbie  existed  to  no  other  mind.  All 
the  others  were  asleep;  while  he  had  a  thrilling  con- 
sciousness of  them,  and  of  their  future  attitude  to  him, 
they  did  not  know  that  he,  the  returning  great  one,  was 
present  in  their  midst.  They  all  knew  of  the  Eaeburn, 
however,  and  ere  long  they  would  know  that  it  was  his. 
He  was  glad  to  hug  his  proud  secret  in  presence  of  the 
sleeping  town,  of  which  he  would  be  the  talk  to-mor- 
row. How  he  would  surprise  them!  He  stood  for 
a  little,  gloating  in  his  own  sensations.  Then  a  de- 
sire to  get  home  tugged  him,  and  he  scurried  up  the 
long  brae. 

He  stole  round  the  corner  of  the  House  with  the 
Green  Shutters.  Eoger,  the  collie,  came  at  him  with  a 
bow-wow-wow.  "  Eoger!  "  he  whispered,  and  cuddled 
him,  and  the  old  loyalist  fawned  on  him  and  licked  his 

[199] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GREEK  SHUTTERS 

hand.  The  very  smell  of  the  dog  was  couthie  in  his 
nose. 

The  window  of  a  bedroom  went  up  with  a  crash. 

"  Now,  then,  who  the  devil  are  you?  "came  the  voice 
of  old  Gourlay. 

"  It's  me,  faither,"  said  John. 

"  Oh,  it's  you,  is  it?  This  is  a  fine  time  o'  night  to 
come  home." 

"  Faither,  I  have — I  have  won  the  Raeburn!  " 

"  It'll  keep,  my  mannie,  it'll  keep  " — and  the  window 
slammed. 

Next  moment  it  was  up. 

"  Did  young  Wilson  get  ony thing?  "  came  the  eager 
cry. 

"  Nut  him!  "  said  John. 

"  Fine,  man!     Dam'd,  sir,  I'm  proud  o'  ye!  " 

John  went  round  the  corner  treading  on  air.  For  the 
first  time  in  his  life  his  father  had  praised  him. 

He  peeped  through  a  kink  at  the  side  of  the  kitchen- 
blind,  where  its  descent  was  arrested  by  a  flowerpot,  in 
the  corner  of  the  window-sill.  As  he  had  expected, 
though  it  was  long  past  midnight,  his  mother  was  not 
yet  in  bed.  She  was  folding  a  white  cloth  over  her 
bosom,  and  about  her,  on  the  backs  of  chairs,  there  were 
other  such  cloths,  drying  by  the  fire.  He  watched  her 
curiously — once  he  seemed  to  hear  a  whimpering  moan. 
\\Tien  she  buttoned  her  dress  above  the  cloth,  she  gazed 
sadly  at  the  dying  embers,  the  look  of  one  who  has 
gained  short  respite  from  a  task  of  painful  tendance  on 
the  body,  yet  is  conscious  that  the  task  and  the  pain  are 
endless,  and  will  have  to  be  endured,  to-morrow  and  to- 
morrow, till  she  dies.     It  was  the  fixed  gaze  of  utter 

[200] 


CHAPTER  NINETEEN 

weariness  and  apathy.  A  sudden  alarm  for  his  mother 
made  John  cry  her  name. 

She  flew  to  the  door,  and  in  a  moment  had  him  in  her 
arms.     He  told  his  news,  and  basked  in  her  adoration. 

She  came  close  to  him,  and  "  John,"  she  said  in  a 
smiling  whisper,  big-eyed,  "John,"  she  breathed, 
"  would  ye  like  a  dram  ?  "  It  was  as  if  she  was  pro- 
pounding a  roguish  plan  in  some  dear  conspiracy. 

He  laughed.  "  Well,"  he  said,  "  seeing  we  have  won 
the  Eaeburn,  you  and  I,  I  think  we  might!  " 

He  heard  her  fumbling  in  the  distant  pantry.  He 
smiled  to  himself  as  he  listened  to  the  clinking  glass, 
and,  "  By  Jove,"  said  he,  "  a  mother's  a  fine  thing!  " 

"  Where's  Janet?  "  he  asked  when  she  returned.  He 
wanted  another  worshipper. 

"  Oh,  she  gangs  to  bed  the  moment  it's  dark,"  his 
mother  complained,  like  one  aggrieved.  "  She's  always 
saying  that  she's  ill!  I  thocht  when  she  grew  up  that 
she  might  be  a  wee  help,  but  she's  no  use  at  all.  And 
I'm  sure,  if  a'  was  kenned,  I  have  more  to  complain  o' 
than  she  has.  Atweel  aye,"  she  said,  and  stared  at  the 
embers. 

It  rarely  occurs  to  young  folk  who  have  never  left 
their  homes  that  their  parents  may  be  dying  soon; 
from  infancy  they  have  known  them  as  established  facts 
of  nature  like  the  streams  and  hills;  they  expect  them 
to  remain.  But  the  young  who  have  been  away  for 
six  months  are  often  struck  by  a  tragic  difference  in 
their  elders  on  returning  home.  To  young  Gourlay 
there  was  a  curious  difference  in  his  mother.  She  was 
almost  beautiful  to-night.  Her  blue  eyes  were  large 
and  glittering;  her  ears  waxen  and  delicate;  and  her 

[201] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GEEEN  SHUTTEKS 

brown  hair  swept  low  on  her  blue-veined  temples. 
Above  and  below  her  lips  there  was  a  narrow  margin  of 
the  purest  white. 

"  Mother,"  he  said  anxiously,  "  you're  not  ill,  are  ye? 
What  do  ye  need  so  many  wee  clouts  for?  " 

She  gasped  and  started.  "  They're  just  a  wheen 
clouts  I  was  sorting  out,"  she  faltered. — "  No,  no,  dear, 
there's  noathing  wrong  wi'  me." 

"  There's  one  sticking  in  your  blouse,"  said  he,  and 
pointed  to  her  slack  breast. 

She  glanced  nervously  down  and  pushed  it  further  in. 
"  I  daresay  I  put  it  there  when  I  wasna  thinking,"  she 
explained. 

But  she  eyed  him  furtively  to  see  if  he  were  still 
looking. 


[202] 


XX 

There  is  nothing  worse  for  a  weakling  than  a  small 
success.  The  strong  man  tosses  it  beneath  his  feet,  as  a 
step  to  rise  higher  on.  He  squeezes  it  into  its  proper 
place  as  a  layer  in  the  life  he  is  building.  If  his  mem- 
ory dwells  on  it  for  a  moment  it  is  only  because  of  its 
valuable  results,  not  because  in  itself  it  is  a  theme  for 
vanity.  And  if  he  be  higher  than  strong  he  values  not 
it,  but  the  exercise  of  getting  it,  viewing  his  actual 
achievement,  he  is  apt  to  reflect:  "  Is  this  pitiful  thing, 
then,  all  that  I  toiled  for?  "  Finer  natures  often  experi- 
ence a  keen  depression  and  sense  of  littleness  in  the 
pause  that  follows  a  success.  But  the  fool  is  so  swollen 
by  thought  of  his  victory  that  he  is  unfit  for  all  healthy 
work  till  somebody  jags  him  and  lets  the  gas  out.  He 
never  forgets  the  great  thing  he  fancies  he  did  thirty 
years  ago,  and  expects  the  world  never  to  forget  it  either. 
The  more  of  a  weakling  he  is,  and  the  more  incapable  of 
repeating  his  former  triumph,  the  more  he  thinks  of  it; 
and  the  more  he  thinks  of  it  the  more  it  satisfies  his 
meagre  soul  and  prevents  him  essaying  another  brave 
venture  in  the  world.  His  petty  achievement  ruins  him. 
The  memory  of  it  never  leaves  him,  but  swells  to  a  huge 
balloon  that  lifts  him  off  his  feet  and  carries  him  heav- 
ens-high— till  it  lands  him  on  a  dunghill.  Even  from 
that  proud  eminence  he  oft  cock-a-doodles  his  former 
triumph  to  the  world.    "  Man,  you  wouldn't  think  to  see 

[203] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GREEN  SHUTTERS 

me  here  that  I  once  held  a  great  position!  Thirty  year 
back,  I  did  a  big  thing.  It  was  like  this,  ye  see/'  And 
then  follows  a  recital  of  his  faded  glories — generally 
ending  with  a  hint  that  a  drink  would  be  very  accept- 
able. 

Even  such  a  weakling  was  young  Gourlay.  His  suc- 
cess in  Edinburgh,  petty  as  it  was,  turned  his  head,  and 
became  one  of  the  many  causes  working  to  destroy  him. 
All  that  summer  at  Barbie  he  swaggered  and  drank  on 
the  strength  of  it. 

On  the  morning  after  his  return  he  clothed  himself 
in  fine  raiment  (he  was  always  well-dressed  till  the  end 
came),  and  sallied  forth  to  dominate  the  town.  As  he 
swaggered  past  the  Cross,  smoking  a  cigarette,  he  seemed 
to  be  conscious  that  the  very  walls  of  the  houses  watched 
liim  with  unusual  eyes,  as  if  even  they  felt  that  yon  was 
John  Gourlay  whom  they  had  known  as  a  boy,  proud 
wearer  now  of  the  academic  wreath,  the  conquering 
hero  returned  to  his  home.  So  Gourlay  figured  them. 
He,  the  disconsidered,  had  shed  a  lustre  on  the  ancient 
walls.  They  were  tributaries  to  his  new  importance — 
somehow  their  attitude  was  different  from  what  it  had 
ever  been  before.  It  was  only  his  self-conscious  bigness, 
of  course,  that  made  even  inanimate  things  seem  the 
feeders  of  his  greatness.  As  Gourlay,  always  alive  to 
obscure  emotions  which  he  could  never  express  in  words, 
mused  for  a  moment  over  the  strange  new  feeling  that 
had  come  to  him,  a  gowsterous  voice  hailed  him  from 
the  Black  Bull  door.  He  turned,  and  Peter  Wylie, 
hearty  and  keen  like  his  father,  stood  him  a  drink  in 
honour  of  his  victory — which  was  already  buzzed  about 
the  town. 

[204] 


CHAPTER   TWENTY 

Drucken  Wabster's  wife  had  seen  to  that.  "  Ou," 
she  cried,  "  his  mother's  daft  about  it,  the  silly  auld 
thing;  she  can  speak  o'  noathing  else.  Though  Gourlay 
gies  her  very  little  to  come  and  go  on,  she  slipped  him 
a  whole  sovereign  this  morning,  to  keep  his  pouch! 
Think  o'  that,  kimmers;  heard  ye  ever  sic  extravagance! 
I  saw  her  doin'd  wi'  my  own  eyes.  It's  aince  wud  and 
aye  waur  *  wi'  her,  I'm  thinking.  But  the  wastef u'  wife's 
the  waefu'  widow,  she  should  keep  in  mind.  She's  far 
owre  browdened  upon  yon  boy.  I'm  sure  I  howp  good 
may  come  o't,  but — "  and  with  an  ominous  shake  of  the 
head  she  ended  the  Websterian  harangue. 

Wlien  Peter  Wylie  left  him  Gourlay  lit  a  cigarette  and 
stood  at  the  Cross,  waiting  for  the  praises  yet  to  be. 
The  Deacon  toddled  forward  on  his  thin  shanks. 

"Man  Dyohn,  you're  won  hame,  I  thee!  Aye  man! 
And  how  are  ye  ?  " 

Gourlay  surveyed  him  with  insolent,  indolent  eyes. 
"  Oh,  I'm  all  rai-ight.  Deacon,"  he  swaggered,  "  how  are 
ye-ow?"  and  he  sent  a  puff  of  tobacco-smoke  down 
through  his  nostrils. 

"  I  declare!  "  said  the  Deacon.  "I  never  thaw  ony- 
body  thmoke  like  that  before!  That'll  be  one  of  the 
thingth  ye  learn  at  College,  no  doubt." 

"  Ya-as,"  yawned  Gourlay;  "  it  gives  you  the  full 
flavour  of  the  we-eed." 

The  Deacon  glimmered  over  him  with  his  eyes.  "  The 
weed,"  said  he.     "Juthttho!     Imphm.     The  weed." 

Then  worthy  Mister  Allardyce  tried  another  opening. 
"  But,  dear  me!  "  he  cried,  "  I'm  forgetting  entirely.     I 

*" Aince.  wud  and  aye  waur" :  silly  for  once  and  silly  for 
always. 

[  305] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GREEN  SHUTTERS 

must  congratulate  ye!  Ye've  been  doing  wonderth, 
they  tell  me,  up  in  Embro." 

"  Just  a  little  bit,"  swaggered  Gourlay,  right  hand  on 
outshot  hip,  left  hand  flaunting  a  cigarette  in  air  most 
delicate,  tobacco-smoke  curling  from  his  lofty  nose.  He 
looked  down  his  face  at  the  Deacon.  "  Just  a  little  bit, 
Mr.  Allardyce,  Just  a  little  bit.  I  tossed  the  thing  off 
in  a  twinkling." 

"  Aye  man,  Dyohn,"  said  the  Deacon  with  great  solici- 
tude, "  but  you  maunna  work  that  brain  o'  yours  too 
hard,  though.  A  heid  like  yours  doesna  come  through 
the  hatter's  hand  ilka  day  o'  the  week;  you  mutht  be 
careful  not  to  put  too  great  a  thtrain  on't.  Aye,  aye; 
often  the  best  machine's  the  easiest  broken  and  the 
warst  to  mend.  You  should  take  a  rest  and  enjoy  your- 
self. But  there!  what  need  I  be  telling  you  that?  A. 
College-bred  man  like  you  kenth  far  better  about  it  than 
a  thilly  auld  country  bodie !  You'll  be  meaning  to  have 
a  grand  holiday  and  lots  o'  fun — a  dram  now  and  then, 
eh?  and  mony  a  rattle  in  the  auld  man's  gig?  " 

At  this  assault  on  his  weak  place  Gourlay  threw  away 
his  important  manner  with  the  end  of  his  cigarette.  He 
could  never  maintain  the  lofty  pose  for  more  than  five 
minutes  at  a  time. 

''  You're  riglii,  Deacon,"  he  said,  nodding  his  head 
with  splurging  sincerity.  "  I  mean  to  have  a  dem'd 
good  holiday.  One's  glad  to  get  back  to  the  old  place 
after  six  months  in  Edinburgh." 

''Atweel,"  said  the  Deacon.  "  But,  man,  have  you 
tried  the  new  whiskey  at  the  Black  Bull — I  thaw  ye 
in  wi'  Pate  Wylie?  It'th  extr'ornar  gude — thaft  as  the 
thang  o'  a  mavis  on  a  nicht  at  e'en,  and  fiery  as  a  High- 

[  206  ] 


CHAPTER  TWENTY 

land  charge." — It  was  not  in  character  for  the  Dea- 
con to  say  such  a  thing,  but  whiskey  makes  the  meanest 
of  Scots  poetical.  He  elevates  the  manner  to  the  mat- 
ter, and  attains  the  perfect  style. — "  But  no  doubt,"  the 
cunning  old  pryer  went  on,  with  a  smiling  suavity  in 
his  voice,  "  but  no  doubt  a  man  who  knowth  Edinburgh 
tho  well  as  you,  will  have  a  favourite  blend  of  hith  own. 
I  notice  that  University  men  have  a  fine  taste  in 
thpirits." 

"  I  generally  prefer  *  Kinblythmont's  Cure,'  "  said 
Gourlay  with  the  air  of  a  connoisseur.  "  But  '  Ander- 
son's Sting  o'  Delight '  's  very  good,  and  so's  '  Balsillie's 
Brig  o'  the  Mains.'  " 

"Aye,"  said  the  Deacon..  "Aye,  aye!  *  Brig  o'  the 
Mains '  ith  what  Jock  Allan  drinks.  He'll  pree  noath- 
ing  else.  I  dare  thay  you  thee  a  great  deal  of  him  in 
Embro." 

"  Oh,  every  week,"  swaggered  Gourlay.  "  We're 
always  together,  he  and  I." 

"  Alwayth  thegither!  "  said  the  Deacon. 

It  was  not  true  that  Allan  and  Gourlay  were  together 
at  all  times.  Allan  was  kind  to  Jean  Bichmond's  son 
(in  his  own  ruinous  way)  but  not  to  the  extent  of  being 
burdened  with  the  cub  half  a  dozen  times  a  week. 
Gourlay  was  merely  boasting — as  young  blades  are  apt 
to  do  of  acquaintance  with  older  roisterers.  They  think 
it  makes  them  seem  men  of  the  world.  And  in  his  de- 
sire to  vaunt  his  comradeship  with  Allan,  John  failed 
to  see  that  Allardyce  was  scooping  him  out  like  an 
oyster. 

"  Aye  man,"  resumed  the  Deacon;  "  he's  a  heartv  fel- 
low, Jock.     No  doubt  you  have  the  great  thprees?  " 

[207] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GKEEN  SHUTTERS 

"  Sprees!  "  gurgled  Gourlay,  and  flung  back  his  head 
with  a  laugh.  "  I  should  think  we  have.  There  was  a 
great  foy  at  Allan's  the  night  before  I  left  Edinburgh. 
Tarmillan  was  there — d'ye  know,  yon's  the  finest  fellow 
I  ever  met  in  my  life! — and  Bauldy  Logan — he's  another 
great  chap.  Then  there  was  Armstrong  and  Gillespie — 
great  friends  of  mine — and  damned  clever  fellows  they 
are,  too,  I  can  tell  you.  Besides  us  three  there  were  half 
a  dozen  more  from  the  College.  You  should  have  heard 
the  talk!  And  every  man-jack  was  as  drunk  as  a  lord. 
The  last  thing  I  remember  is  some  of  us  students  dan- 
cing round  a  lamp-post  while  Logan  whistled  a  jig." 

Though  Gourlay  the  elder  hated  the  Deacon,  he  had 
never  warned  his  son  to  avoid  him.  To  have  said 
"  Allardyce  is  dangerous  "  would  have  been  to  pay  the 
old  malignant  too  great  a  compliment;  it  would  have 
been  beneath  John  Gourlay  to  admit  that  a  thing  like 
Allardyce  could  harm  him  and  his.  Young  Gourlay, 
therefore,  when  once  set  a-going  by  the  Deacon's  deft 
management,  blurted  everything  without  a  hanker. 
Even  so,  however,  he  felt  that  he  had  gone  too  far.  He 
glanced  anxiously  at  his  companion.  "  Mum's  the  word 
about  this,  of  course,"  he  said  with  a  wink.  "  It  would 
never  do  for  this  to  be  known  about  the  '  Green 
Shutters.' " 

'^Oh,  I'm  ath  thound  ath  a  bell,  Dyohn,  I'm  ath 
thound  ath  a  bell,"  said  the  Deacon.  "  Aye  man!  You 
jutht  bear  out  what  I  have  alwa3^h  underthood  about  the 
men  o'  brainth.  They're  the  heartiest  devilth  after  a'. 
Burns,  that  the  baker  raves  so  muckle  o',  was  jutht 
another  o'  the  thame.  Jutht  another  o'  the  thame! 
We'll  be  hearing  o'  you  boys — Pate  Wylie  and  you  and  a 

[  308  ] 


CHAPTER  TWENTY 

wheel!  luair — having  rare  ploys  in  Barbie  through  the 
thummer." 

"  Oh,  we'll  kick  up  a  bit  of  a  dust,"  Gourlay  sniggered, 
well-pleased.  Had  not  the  Deacon  ranked  him  in  the 
robustious  great  company  of  Burns!  "  I  say.  Deacon, 
come  in  and  have  a  nip." 

"  There's  your  faither,"  grinned  the  Deacon. 

"  Eh?  What?  "  cried  Gourlay  in  alarm,  and  started 
round,  to  see  his  father  and  the  Rev.  Mr.  Struthers  ad- 
vancing up  the  Fechars  Road.  "  Eh — eh — Deacon — I 
— I'll  see  you  again  about  the  nip." 

"Jutht  tho!"  grinned  the  Deacon.  "We'll  post- 
pone the  drink  to  a  more  convenient  opportunity." 

He  toddled  away,  having  no  desire  that  old  Gourlay 
should  find  him  talking  to  his  son.  If  Gourlay  sus- 
pected him  of  pulling  the  young  fellow's  leg,  likely  as 
not  he  would  give  an  exhibition  of  his  dem'd  unpleasant 
manners ! 

Gourlay  and  the  minister  came  straight  towards  the 
student.  Of  the  Rev.  Mr.  Struthers  it  may  be  said  with 
truth  that  he  would  have  cut  a  remarkable  figure  in  any 
society.  lie  had  big  splay  feet,  short  stout  legs,  and  a 
body  of  such  bulging  bulbosity,  that  all  the  droppings  of 
his  spoon — which  were  many — were  caught  on  the  round 
of  his  black  waistcoat,  which  always  looked  as  if  it  had 
just  been  spattered  by  a  grey  shower.  His  eye-brows 
were  bushy  and  white,  and  the  hairs  slanting  up  and  out 
rendered  the  meagre  brow  even  narrower  than  it  was. 
His  complexion,  more  especially  in  cold  weather,  was  a 
dark  crimson.  The  purply  colour  of  his  face  was  in- 
tensified by  the  pure  whiteness  of  the  side  whiskers  pro- 
jecting stiffly  by  his  ears,  and  in  mid-week,  when  he  was 

[  309  ] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GKEEN  SHUTTERS 

unshaven,  his  redness  revealed  more  plainly,  in  turn, 
the  short  gleaming  stubble  that  lay  like  rime  on  his 
chin.  His  eyes  goggled,  and  his  manner  at  all  times 
was  that  of  a  staring  and  earnest  self-importance. 
"  Puify  Importance  "  was  one  of  his  nicknames. 

Struthers  was  a  man  of  lowly  stock  who,  after  a  ten 
years'  desperate  battle  with  his  heavy  brains,  succeeded 
at  the  long  last  of  it  in  passing  the  examinations  required 
for  the  ministry.  The  influence  of  a  wealthy  patron 
then  presented  him  to  Barbie.  Because  he  had  taken  so 
long  to  get  through  the  University  himself,  he  constantly 
magnified  the  place  in  his  conversation,  partly  to  excuse 
his  own  slowness  in  getting  through  it,  partly  that  the 
greater  glory  might  redound  on  him  who  had  con- 
quered it  at  last,  and  issued  from  its  portals  a  fat  and 
prosperous  alumnus.  Stupid  men  who  have  mastered 
a  system,  not  by  intuition  but  by  a  plodding  effort  of 
slow  years,  always  exaggerate  its  importance — did  it  not 
take  them  ten  years  to  understand  it? — whoso  has 
passed  the  system,  then,  is  to  their  minds  one  of  a  close 
corporation,  of  a  select  and  intellectual  few,  and  entitled 
to  pose  before  the  uninitiate.  Because  their  stupidity 
made  the  thing  difficult,  their  vanity  leads  them  to  exalt 
it.  Woe  to  him  that  shall  scoff  at  any  detail!  To 
Struthers  the  Senatus  Academicus  was  an  august  assem- 
blage worthy  of  the  Eoman  Curia,  and  each  petty  aca- 
demic rule  was  a  law  sacrosanct  and  holy.  He  was  for- 
ever talking  of  the  "  Univairsity."  "Mind  ye,"  he 
would  say,  "  it  takes  a  loang  time  to  understand  even  the 
workings  of  the  Univairsity — the  Senatus  and  such- 
like; it's  not  for  everyone  to  criticise."  He  implied,  of 
course,  that  he  had  a  right  to  criticise,  having  passed  tri- 

[210] 


CHAPTER  TWENTY 

umphant  through  the  mighty  test.  This  vanity  of  his 
was  fed  by  a  peculiar  vanity  of  some  Scots  peasants,  who 
like  to  discuss  Divinity  Halls,  and  so  on,  because  to  talk 
of  these  things  shews  that  they,  too,  are  intelligent  men, 
and  know  the  awful  intellectual  ordeal  required  of  a 
"  Meenister."  When  a  peasant  says  "  He  went  through 
his  Arts  course  in  three  years,  and  got  a  kirk  the  mo- 
ment he  was  licensed,"  he  wants  you  to  see  that  he's  a 
smart  man  himself,  and  knows  what  he's  talking  of. 
There  were  several  men  in  Barbie  who  liked  to  talk  in 
that  way,  and  among  them  Puffy  Importance,  when  gra- 
ciously inclined,  found  ready  listeners  to  his  pompous 
blether  about  the  "  Univairsity."  But  what  he  liked 
best  of  all  was  to  stop  a  newly-returned  student  in  full 
view  of  the  people,  and  talk  learnedly  of  his  courses — 
dear  me,  aye — of  his  courses,  and  his  matriculations, 
and  his  lectures,  and  his  graduations,  and  his  thingum- 
bobs. That  was  why  he  bore  down  upon  our  great  essay- 
ist. 

''  Allow  me  to  congratulate  you,  John,"  he  said,  with 
heavy  solemnity — for  Struthers  always  made  a  congre- 
gation of  his  listener,  and  droned  as  if  mounted  for  a 
sermon.  "Ye  have  done  excellently  well  this  Session; 
ye  have  indeed.    Ex-cellently  well!    Ex-cellently  well!  " 

Gourlay  blushed  and  thanked  him. 

"  Tell  me  now,"  said  the  cleric,  "  do  you  mean  to  take 
your  Arts  course  in  three  years  or  four?  A  loang  Arts 
course  is  a  grand  thing  for  a  clairgyman.  Even  if  he 
spends  half  a  dozen  years  on't  he  won't  be  wasting  his 
time! " 

Gourlay  glanced  at  his  father.  "  I  mean  to  try't  in 
three,"  he  said.     His  father  had  threatened  him  that  he 

[211] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GREEN  SHUTTERS 

must  get  througli   his   Arts   in   three  years — without 
deigning,  of  course,  to  give  any  reason  for  the  threat. 

"  We-ell,"  said  Mr.  Struthers,  gazing  down  the  Fech- 
ars  Road,  as  if  visioning  great  things,  "  it  will  require  a 
strenuous  and  devoted  application — a  strenuous  and  de- 
voted application — even  from  the  man  of  abeelity  you 
have  shown  yourself  to  be.  Tell  me  now,"  he  went  on, 
"  have  ye  heard  ainything  of  the  new  Professor  of  Exe- 
gesis?    D'ye  know  how  he's  doing?  " 

Young  Gourlay  knew  nothing  of  the  new  Professor  of 
Exegesis,  but  he  answered,  "  Very  well,  I  believe,"  at  a 
venture. 

"  Oh,  he's  sure  to  do  well,  he's  sure  to  do  well!  He's 
one  of  the  best  men  we  have  in  the  Church.  I  have 
just  finished  his  book  on  the  Epheesians.  It's  most  pro- 
found! It  has  taken  me  a  whole  year  to  master  it." 
("  Garvie  on  the  Ephesians  "  is  a  book  of  a  hundred  and 
eighty  pages.)  "And,  by  the  way,"  said  the  parson, 
stooping  to  Scotch  in  his  ministerial  jocoseness, 
"  how's  auld  Tarn,  in  whose  class  you  were  a  prize-win- 
ner? He  was  appointed  to  the  Professoriate  the  same 
year  that  I  obtained  my  license.  I  remember  to  have 
heard  him  deliver  a  lecture  on  German  philosophy,  and 
I  thought  it  excellently  good.  But  perhaps,"  he  added, 
with  solemn  and  pondering  brows,  "  perhaps  he  was  a 
little  too  fond  of  Hegel. — Yess,  I  am  inclined  to  think 
that  he  was  a  little  too  fond  of  Hegel."  Mrs.  Eccles, 
listening  from  the  Black  Bull  door,  wondered  if  Hegel 
was  a  drink. 

"  He's  very  popular,"  said  young  Gourlay. 

"  Oh,  he's  sure  to  be  popular,  he  merits  the  very 
greatest  popple-arity.     And  he  would  express  himself  as 

[213] 


CHAPTER  TWENTY 

being  excellently  well  pleased  with  your  theme?  What 
did  he  say  of  it,  may  I  venture  to  enquire  ?  " 

Beneath  the  pressure  of  his  father's  presence  young 
Gourlay  did  not  dare  to  splurge.  "  He  seemed  to  think 
there  was  something  in  it,"  he  answered,  modestly 
enough. 

"  Oh,  he  would  be  sure  to  think  there  was  something 
in  it,"  said  the  minister,  staring,  and  wagging  his  pow. 
"  Not  a  doubt  of  tha-at,  not  a  doubt  of  tha-at!  Tliere 
must  have  been  something  in  it,  to  obtain  the  palm  of 
victory  in  the  face  of  such  prodigious  competeetion. 
It's  the  see-lect  intellect  of  Scotland  that  goes  to  the 
Univairsity,  and  only  the  ee-lect  of  the  see-elect  win  the 
palm.  And  it's  an  augury  of  great  good  for  the  future. 
Abeelity  to  write  is  a  splendid  thing  for  the  Church. 
Good-bye,  John,  and  allow  me  to  express  once  moar  my 
great  satisfaction  that  a  pareeshioner  of  mine  is  a  la-ad 
of  such  brilliant  promise!  " 

Though  the  elder  Gourlay  disconsidered  the  Church, 
and  thought  little  of  Mr.  Struthers,  he  swelled  with 
pride  to  think  that  the  minister  should  stop  his  offspring 
in  the  Main  Street  of  Barbie,  to  congratulate  him  on  his 
prospects.  They  were  close  to  the  Emporium;  and  with 
the  tail  of  his  eye  he  could  see  Wilson  peeping  from  the 
door,  and  listening  to  every  word.  This  would  be  a 
hair  in  Wilson's  neck!  There  were  no  clerical  compli- 
ments for  Ms  son!    The  tables  were  turned  at  last. 

His  father  had  a  generous  impulse  to  John  for  the 
bright  triumph  he  had  won  the  Gourlays.  He  fumbled 
in  his  trouser-pocket,  and  passed  him  a  sovereign. 

"  I'm  kind  o'  hard-up,"  he  said  with  grim  jocosity, 
"  but  there's  a  pound  to  keep  your  pouch. — No  nonsense 

[213  ] 


V 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GREEN  SHUTTERS 

now!  "  he  shot  at  the  youth  with  a  loaded  eye.  "  That's 
just  for  use  if  you  happen  to  be  in  company.  A  Gour- 
lay  maun  spend  as  much  as  the  rest  o'  folk." 

"  Yes,  faither,"  said  the  youngster,  and  Gourlay  went 
away. 

That  grimly- jocose  reference  to  his  poverty  was  a  fea- 
ture of  Gourlay's  talk  now,  when  he  spoke  of  money  to 
his  family.  It  excused  the  smallness  of  his  doles,  yet 
led  them  to  believe  that  he  was  only  joking,  that  he  had 
plenty  of  money  if  he  would  only  consent  to  shell  it  out. 
And  that  was  what  he  wished  them  to  believe.  His 
pride  would  not  allow  him  to  confess,  even  to  his  near- 
est, that  he  was  a  failure  in  business,  and  hampered  with 
financial  trouble.  Thus  his  manner  of  warning  them  to 
be  careful  had  the  very  opposite  effect.  "  He  has  heaps 
o'  cash,"  thought  the  son,  as  he  watched  the  father  up 
the  street;  "  there's  no  need  for  a  fellow  to  be  mean." 

Flattered  (as  he  fondly  imagined)  by  the  Deacon,  flat- 
tered by  the  minister,  tipped  by  his  mother,  tipped  by 
his  father,  hale-fellow-well-met  with  Pate  Wylie — Lord, 
but  young  Gourlay  was  the  fine  fellow!  Symptoms  of 
swell-head  set  in  with  alarming  rapidity.  He  had  a 
wild  tendency  to  splurge.  And,  that  he  might  show 
in  a  single  afternoon  all  the  crass  stupidity  of  which 
he  was  capable,  he  immediately  allowed  himself  a 
veiled  insult  towards  the  daughters  of  the  ex-Provost. 
They  were  really  nice  girls,  in  spite  of  their  parent- 
age, and,  as  they  came  down  the  street,  they  glanced 
with  shy  kindness  at  the  student,  from  under  their 
broad-brinuned  hats.  Gourlay  raised  his  in  answer 
to  their  nod.  But  the  moment  after,  and  in  their  hear- 
ing, he  yelled  blatantly  to  Swipey  Broon,  to  come  on 

[214] 


CHAPTEK  TWENTY 

and  have  a  drink  of  beer.  Swipey  was  a  sweep  now, 
for  Brown  the  ragman  had  added  chimney-cleaning  to 
his  other  occupations — plurality  of  professions,  you  ob- 
serve, being  one  of  the  features  of  the  life  of  Barbie. 
When  Swipey  turned  out  of  the  Fleckie  Road,  he  was  as 
black  as  the  ace  of  spades,  a  most  disreputable  phiz. 
And  when  Gourlay  yelled  his  loud  welcome  to  that 
grimy  object,  what  he  wanted  to  convey  to  the  two  girls 
was:  "Ho,  ho,  my  pretty  misses;  I'm  on  bowing  terms 
with  you,  and  yet  when  I  might  go  up  and  speak  to  ye, 
I  prefer  to  go  off  and  drink  with  a  sweep,  d'ye  see? 
That  shows  what  I  think  o'  ye! "  All  that  summer 
John  took  an  oblique  revenge  on  those  who  had  dis- 
considered the  Gourlays — but  would  have  liked  to  make 
up  to  him  now  when  they  thought  he  was  going  to  do 
well — he  took  a  paltry  revenge  by  patently  rejecting 
their  advances  and  consorting  instead,  and  in  their  pres- 
ence, with  the  lowest  of  low  company.  Thus  he  vented 
a  spite  which  he  had  long  cherished  against  them  for 
their  former  neglect  of  Janet  and  him.  For,  though  the 
Gourlay  children  had  been  welcome  at  well-to-do  houses 
in  the  country,  their  father's  unpopularity  had  cut  them 
off  from  the  social  life  of  the  town.  When  the  Provost 
gave  his  grand  spree  on  Hogmanay  there  was  never  an 
invitation  for  the  Gourlay  youngsters.  The  slight  had 
rankled  in  the  boy's  mind.  Now,  however,  some  of  the 
local  bigwigs  had  an  opinion  (with  very  little  to  sup- 
port it)  that  he  was  going  to  be  a  successful  man,  and 
they  shewed  a  disposition  to  be  friendly.  John,  with  a 
rankling  memory  of  their  former  coldness,  flouted  every 
overture,  by  letting  them  see  plainly  that  he  preferred  to 
their  company — that  of  Swipey  Broon,  Jock  McCraw, 

[  215  ] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GREEK  SHUTTERS 

and  every  ragamuffin  of  the  town.  It  was  a  kind  of  back- 
handed stroke  at  them.  That  was  the  paltry  form 
which  his  father's  pride  took  in  him.  He  did  not  see 
tliat  he  was  harming  himself  rather  than  his  father's 
enemies.  Harm  himself  he  did,  for  you  could  not  asso- 
ciate with  Jock  McCraw  and  the  like,  without  drinking 
in  every  howff  you  came  across. 

When  the  bodies  assembled  next  day  for  their  "  morn- 
ing/' the  Deacon  was  able  to  inform  them  that  young 
Gourlay  was  back  from  the  College,  daf ter  than  ever,  and 
that  he  had  pulled  his  leg  as  far  as  he  wanted  it.  "  Oh," 
lie  said,  "  I  played  him  like  a  kitten  wi'  a  cork  and  found 
out  ainything  and  everything  I  wished.  I  dithcovered 
that  he's  in  wi'  Jock  Allan  and  that  crowd — I  edged  the 
conversation  round  on  purpoth!  Unless  he  wath  blow- 
ing his  trump — which  I  greatly  doubt — they're  as  thick 
as  thieveth.  Ye  ken  what  that  meanth.  He'll  turn 
hith  wee  finger  to  the  ceiling  oftener  than  he  puts  iiith 
forefinger  to  the  pen,  I'm  thinking.  It  theemth  he 
drinkth  enormuth!  He  took  a  gey  nip  last  thummer, 
and  this  thummer  I  wager  he  takes  mair  o't.  He 
avowed  his  plain  intention!  *  I  mean  to  kick  up  a  bit  of 
a  dust,'  thays  he.     Oh,  but  he's  the  splurge!  " 

"Aye,  aye,"  said  Sandy  Toddle;  "  thae  students  are 
a  gey  squad.     Especially  the  young  ministers." 

"  Ou,"  said  Tam  Wylie,  "  dinna  be  hard  on  the  min- 
isters. Ministers  are  just  like  the  rest  o'  folk.  They 
mind  me  o'  last  year's  early  tatties.  They're  grand 
when  they're  gude,  but  the  feck  o'  them's  frostit." 

"Aye,"  said  the  Deacon,  "  and  young  Gourlay's  frostit 
in  the  shaw  already.  I  doubt  it'll  be  a  poor  ingather- 
ing." 

[  216  ] 


CHAPTER  TWENTY 

"  Weel,  weel,"  said  Tam  Wylie,  "  the  mair's  the  pity  o' 
that,  Deacon." 

"  Oh,  it'th  a  grai-ait  pity,"  said  the  Deacon,  and  he 
bowed  his  body  solemnly  with  outspread  hands.  "  No 
doubt  it'th  a  grai-ait  pity!  "  and  he  wagged  his  head 
from  side  to  side,  the  picture  of  a  poignant  woe. 

"  I  saw  him  in  the  Black  Bull  yestreen,"  said  Bro- 
die,  who  had  been  silent  hitherto  in  utter  scorn  of  the 
lad  they  were  speaking  of — too  disgusted  to  open  his 
mouth.  "  He  was  standing  drinks  to  a  crowd  that  were 
puffing  him  up  about  that  prize  o'  his." 

"  It's  alwayth  the  numskull  hath  the  most  conceit," 
said  the  Deacon. 

"And  yet  there  must  be  something  in  him  too,  to  get 
that  prize,"  mused  the  ex-Provost. 

"A  little  ability's  a  dangerous  thing,"  said  Johnny 
Coe,  who  could  think  at  times.  "  To  be  safe  you  should 
be  a  genius  winged  and  flying,  or  a  crawling  thing  that 
never  leaves  the  earth.  It's  the  half-and-half  that  hell 
gapes  for.     And  owre  they  flap." 

But  nobody  understood  him.  "  Drink  and  vanity'll 
soon  make  end  of  liim"  said  Brodie  curtly,  and  snubbed 
the  philosopher. 

Before  the  summer  holiday  was  over  (it  lasts  six 
months  in  Scotland)  young  Gourlay  was  a  habit-and- 
repute  tippler.  His  shrinking  abhorrence  from  the 
scholastic  life  of  Edinburgh  flung  him  with  all  the 
greater  abandon  into  the  conviviality  he  had  learned  to 
know  at  home.  His  mother  (who  always  seemed  to  sit 
up  now,  after  Janet  and  Gourlay  were  in  bed)  often  let 
him  in  during  the  small  hours,  and,  as  he  hurried  past 
her  in  the  lobby,  he  would  hold  his  breath  lest  she 

[217] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GKEEN  SHUTTERS 

should  smell  it.  "  You're  unco  late,  dear/'  she  would 
say  wearily,  but  no  other  reproach  did  she  utter.  "  I 
was  taking  a  walk,"  he  M'ould  answer  thickly;  "  there's 
a  fine  moon! "  It  was  true  that  when  his  terrible  de- 
pression seized  him,  he  was  sometimes  tempted  to  seek 
the  rapture  and  peace  of  a  moonlight  walk  upon  the 
rieckie  Eoad.  In  his  crude  clay  there  was  a  vein  of 
poetry;  he  could  be  alone  in  the  country,  and  not  lonely; 
had  he  lived  in  a  green  quiet  place,  he  might  have 
learned  the  solace  of  nature  for  the  wounded  when  eve 
sheds  her  spiritual  dews.  But  the  mean  pleasures  to  be 
found  at  the  Cross  satisfied  his  nature,  and  stopped  him 
midway  to  that  soothing  beauty  of  the  woods  and 
streams,  which  might  have  brought  healing  and  a  wise 
quiescence.  His  success — such  as  it  was — had  gained 
him  a  circle — such  as  it  was — and  the  assertive  nature 
proper  to  his  father's  son  gave  him  a  kind  of  lead 
amongst  them.  Yet  even  his  henchmen  saw  through 
his  swaggering.  Swipey  Broon  turned  on  him  one  night, 
and  threatened  to  split  his  mouth,  and  he  went  as  white 
as  the  wall  behind  him. 

Among  his  other  follies,  he  assumed  the  pose  of  a  man 
who  could  an  he  would,  who  had  it  in  him  to  do  great 
things,  if  he  would  only  set  about  them.  In  this,  he  was 
partly  playing  up  to  a  foolish  opinion  of  his  more  igno- 
rant associates;  it  was  they  who  suggested  the  pose  to 
him.  "  Devilish  clever!  "  he  heard  them  whisper  one 
night  as  he  stood  in  the  door  of  a  tavern;  "  he  could  do 
it  if  he  liked,  only  he's  too  fond  o'  the  fun."  Young 
Gourlay  flushed  where  he  stood  in  the  darkness,  flushed 
with  pleasure  at  the  criticism  of  his  character  which  was, 
nevertheless^,  a  compliment  to  his  wits.     He  felt  that  he 

[218] 


CHAPTER  TWENTY 

must  play  up  at  once  to  the  character  assigned  him. 
"Ho,  ho,  my  lads! "  he  cried,  entering  with  a  splurge, 
"  let's  make  a  night  o't.  I  should  be  working  for  my 
degree  to-night,  but  I  suppose  I  can  get  it  easy  enough 
when  the  time  comes."  "  What  did  I  tell  ye  ?  "  said 
McCraw,  nudging  an  elbow — and  Gourlay  saw  the 
nudge.  Here  at  last  he  had  found  the  sweet  seduction 
of  a  proper  pose — that  of  a  grand  liomme  manque,  of  a 
man  who  would  be  a  genius  were  it  not  for  the  excess  of 
his  qualities.  Would  he  continue  to  appear  a  genius, 
then  he  must  continue  to  display  that  excess  which — 
so  he  wished  them  to  believe — alone  prevented  his  bril- 
liant achievements.  It  was  all  a  curious  vicious  inver- 
sion. "  You  could  do  great  things  if  you  didn't  drink," 
crooned  the  fools.  "  See  how  I  drink,"  Gourlay  seemed 
to  answer — "  that  is  why  I  don't  do  great  things.  But, 
mind  you,  I  could  do  them,  were  it  not  for  this."  Thus 
every  glass  he  tossed  off  seemed  to  hint  in  a  roundabout 
way  at  the  glorious  heights  he  might  attain  if  he  didn't 
drink  it.  His  very  roystering  became  a  pose,  and  his 
vanity  made  him  royster  the  more,  to  make  the  pose 
more  convincing. 


[219] 


XXI 

On  a  beautiful  evening  in  September,  when  a  new 
crescent  moon  was  pointing  through  the  saffron  sky  like 
the  lit  tip  of  a  finger,  the  City  Fathers  had  assembled 
at  the  corner  of  the  Fleckie  Road.  Though  the  moon 
was  peeping,  the  dying  glory  of  the  day  was  still  upon 
the  town.  The  white  smoke  rose  straight  and  far  in 
the  golden  mystery  of  the  heavens,  and  a  line  of  dark 
roofs,  transfigured  against  the  west,  wooed  the  eye  to 
musing.  But  though  the  bodies  felt  the  fine  evening 
bathe  them  in  a  sensuous  content,  as  they  smoked  and 
dawdled,  they  gave  never  a  thought  to  its  beauty.  For 
there  had  been  a  blitheness  in  the  town  that  day,  and 
every  other  man  seemed  to  have  been  preeing  the  demi- 
john. 

Drucken  Wabster  and  Brown  the  ragman  came  round 
the  corner,  staggering. 

"Young  Gourlay's  drunk!"  blurted  Wabster — and 
reeled  himself  as  he  spoke. 

"  Is  he  a  wee  fou?  "  said  the  Deacon  eagerly. 

"  Wee  be  damned,"  said  Wabster;  "  he's  as  fou  as  the 
Baltic  Sea!  If  you  wait  here,  you'll  be  sure  to  see  him! 
He'll  be  round  the  corner  directly." 

"  De-ar  me,  is  he  so  bad  as  that?  "  said  the  ex-Prov- 
ost, raising  his  hands  in  solemn  reprobation.  He  raised 
his  eyes  to  heaven  at  the  same  time,  as  if  it  pained  them 
to  look  on  a  world  that  endured  the  burden  of  a  young 

[230] 


CHAPTER  TWENTY- ONE 

Gourlay.       "  lu    broad    daylight,    too! "    he    sighed. 
"  De-ar  me,  has  he  come  to  this?  " 

"■  Yis,  Pravast,"  hiccupped  Brown,  "  he  has!  He's  as 
phull  of  drink  as  a  whelk-shell's  phuU  of  whelk.  He's 
nearly  as  phull  as  meself . — And  begorra,  that's  mighty 
phull,"  he  stared  suddenly,  scratching  his  head  solemnly 
as  if  the  fact  had  just  occurred  to  him.    Then  he  winked. 

"You  could  set  fire  to  his  braith!  "  cried  Wabster. 
"A  match  to  his  mouth  would  send  him  in  a  lowe." 

"A  living  gas  jet!  "  said  Brown. 

They  staggered  away,  sometimes  rubbing  shoulders 
as  they  lurched  together,  sometimes  with  the  road  be- 
tween them. 

"  I  kenned  young  Gourlay  was  on  the  fuddle  when  I 
saw  him  swinging  ofi"  this  morning  in  his  greatcoat," 
cried  Sandy  Toddle.  "  There  was  debauch  in  the  flap 
o'  the  tails  o't." 

"Man,  have  you  noticed  that,  too!"  cried  another 
eagerly.     "  He's  aye  warst  wi'  the  coat  on!  " 

"  Clothes  undoubtedly  affect  the  character,"  said 
Johnny  Coe.  "  It  takes  a  gentleman  to  wear  a  lordly 
coat  without  swaggering." 

"  There's  not  a  doubt  o'  tha-at!  "  approved  the  baker, 
who  was  merry  with  his  day's  carousal;  "  there's  not  ,^ 
doubt  o'  tha-at!  Claes  affect  the  disposeetion.  I  minSi 
when  I  was  a  young  chap  I  had  a  grand  pair  o'  breeks — ^,' 
Wull  I  ca'ed  them — unco  decent  breeks  they  were,  I 
mind,  lang  and  swankie  like  a  ploughman — and  I  aye 
thocht  I  was  a  tremendous  honest  and  hamely  fallow 
when  I  had  them  on!  And  I  had  a  verra  disreputable 
hat,"  he  added — "  Eab  I  christened  him  for  he  was  a 
perfect  devil — and  I  never  cocked  him  owre  my  lug  on 

[221] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GKEEN  SHUTTERS 

uichts  at  e'en  but  '  Baker! '  he  seemed  to  whisper, 
'  Baker!  Let  us  go  out  and  do  a  bash! ' — And  we  gen- 
erally went." 

"  You're  a  wonderful  man!  "  piped  the  Deacon. 

"  We  may  as  well  wait  and  see  young  Gourlay  going 
bye/'  said  the  ex-Provost.  "  He'll  likely  be  a  sad  spec- 
tacle." 

"  Ith  auld  Gourlay  on  the  thtreet  the  nicht?  "  cried 
the  Deacon  eagerly.  "  I  wonder  will  he  thee  the  young- 
ster afore  he  gets  hame !  Eh,  man — "  he  bent  his  kuces 
with  staring  delight — "  eh,  man,  if  they  would  only 
meet  forenenst  uth!     Hoo!  " 

"  He's  a  regular  waster,'"  said  Brodie.  "  When  a  silly 
young  blood  takes  a  fancy  to  a  girl  in  a  public  house 
he's  always  done  for — I've  observed  it  times  without 
number.  At  first  he  lets  on  that  he  merely  gangs  in 
for  a  drink;  what  he  really  wants,  however,  is  to  see  the 
girl.  Even  if  he's  no  great  toper  to  begin  with,  he  must 
show  himself  fond  o'  the  dram,  as  a  means  of  getting  to 
his  jo.  Then,  before  he  kens  where  he  is,  the  habit 
has  gripped  him.     That's  a  gate  mony  a  anc  gangs." 

"  That's  verra  true — now  that  ye  mention't,"  gravely 
assented  the  ex-Provost.  His  opinion  of  Brodie's  sa- 
gacity, high  already,  was  enhanced  by  the  remark.  "  In- 
deed, that's  verra  true.  But  how  does't  apply  to  young 
(lourlay  in  particular,  Thomas?  Is  lie  after  some  dam- 
sel o'  the  gill-stoup?  " 

"  Ou  aye — he's  ta'en  a  fancy  to  yon  bit  shilp  in  the 
barroom  o'  the  Red  Lion.  He's  always  hinging  owre 
the  counter  talking  till  her,  a  cigarette  dropping  from 
his  face,  and  a  half-fu'  tumbler  at  his  elbow.  AVhen  a 
young  chap  takes  to  hinging  round  bars,  ae  elbow  on 

[322] 


CHAPTER   TWENTY- ONE 

the  counter  and  a  hand  on  his  other  hip,  I  have  verra 
bad  brows  o'  him  always;  verra  bad  brows,  indeed.  Oh 
— oh,  young  Gourlay's  just  a  goner!  a  goner,  sirs;  a 
goner!  " 

"  Have  ye  heard  about  him  at  the  Skeighan  Fair?  " 
said  Sandy  Toddle. 

"  No,  man!  "  said  Brodie,  bowing  down  and  keeking 
at  Toddle  in  his  interest;  "  I  hadna  heard  about  tha-at! 
Is  this  a  new  thing?  " 

"  Oh,  just  at  the  fair;  the  other  day,  ye  know!  " 

"  Aye,  man,  Sandy!  "  said  big  Brodie,  stooping  down 
to  Toddle  to  get  near  the  news;  "  and  what  was  it, 
Sandy?" 

"  Ou,  just  drinking,  ye  know;  wi' — wi'  Swipey  Broon 
— and,  eh,  and  that  McCraw,  ye  know — and  Sandy  Hull 
— and  a  wlieen  niair  o'  that  kind — ye  ken  the  kind;  a 
verra  bad  lot!  "  said  Sandy,  and  wagged  a  disapproving 
pow.  "  Here  they  all  got  as  drunk  as  drunk  could  be,  and 
started  fighting  wi'  the  colliers!  Young  Gourlay  got  a 
bloodied  nose!  Then  nothing  would  serve  him  but  he 
must  drive  back  Avi'  young  Pin-oe,  who  was  even  drunker 
than  himsell.  They  drave  at  sic  a  rate  that  when  they 
dashed  from  this  side  o'  Skeighan  Drone,  the  stour  o' 
their  career  was  rising  at  the  far-end.  They  roared  and 
sang  till  it  was  a  perfect  affront  to  God's  day,  and  frae 
sidie  to  sidie  they  swung  till  the  splash-brods  were 
skreighing  on  the  wheels.  At  a  quick  turn  o'  the  road 
they  wintled  owre;  and  there  they  were,  sitting  on  their 
dowps  in  the  atoms  o'  the  gig,  and  glowering  frae  them! 
When  young  Gourlay  slid  hame  at  dark,  he  was  in  such 
a  state  that  his  mother  had  to  hide  him  frae  the  auld 
man.     She  had  that,  puir  body!     The  twa  women  were 

[223  ] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GKEEN  SHUTTERS 

obliged  to  carry  the  druuk  lump  to  his  bedroom — and 
yon  lassie  far  ga'eu  in  consumption,  too,  they  tell  me! 
Ou,  he  was  in  a  perfectly  awful  condition;  perfectly 
awful! " 

"Aye,  man,"  nodded  Brodie.  "  I  hadna  heard  o't.^ 
Curious  that  I  didna  hear  o'  that!  " 

"  It  was  Drucken  Wabster's  wife  that  telled  it. 
There's  not  a  haet  that  happens  at  the  Gourlays  but  she 
clypes.  I  spiered  her  mysell,  and  she  says  young  Gour- 
lay  has  a  black  eye." 

"Aye,  aye;  there'th  thmall  hope  for  the  Gourlayth  in 
him!  "  said  the  Deacon. 

"  How  do  you  ken?  "  cried  the  baker.  "  He's  no  the 
first  youngster  Fve  seen  the  wiseacres  o'  the  world  wag- 
ging their  sagacious  pows  owre;  and,  eh,  but  he  was  this 
waster! — according  to  their  way  of  it — and,  oh,  but  he 
was  the  other  waster!  and,  ochonee,  but  he  was  the  wild 
fellow! — and  a'  the  while  they  werena  fit  to  be  his  door 
mat;  for  it  was  only  the  fire  in  the  ruffian  made  him 
seem  sae  daft." 

"True!"  said  the  ex-Provost;  "true!  Still  there's 
a  decency  in  daftness.  And  there's  no  decency  in  young 
Gourlay.  He's  just  a  mouth!  '  Start  canny  and  you'll 
steer  weel,'  my  mother  used  to  say;  but  he  has  started 
unco  ill,  and  he'll  steer  to  ruin." 

"  Dinna  spae  ill-fortune !  "  said  the  baker,  "  dinna 
spae  ill-fortune!  And  never  despise  a  youngster  for  a 
random  start.    It's  the  blood  makes  a  breenge." 

"Well,  I  like  young  men  to  be  quiet,"  said  Sandy 
Toddle.  "  I  would  rather  have  them  a  wee  soft  than 
rollickers." 

■    "  Not  I!  "  said  the  baker.     "  If  I  had  a  son,  I  would 

[224] 


CHAPTEPt  TWENTY- ONE 

rather  au  ill  deil  sat  forueust  me  at  the  table,  than  par- 
ratch  in  a  poke.  Burns  (God  rest  his  banes!)  struck 
the  he'rt  o't.     Ye  mind  what  he  said  o'  Prince  Geordie: 

"  '  Yet  mony  a  ragged  cowte's  been  known 
To  mak  a  noble  aiver ; 
And  ye  may  doucely  fill  a  Throne, 

For  a'  their  clishmaclaver; 
There  Him  at  Agincourt  wha  shone, 

Few  better  were  or  braver ; 
And  yet  wi'  funny  queer  Sir  John 
He  was  an  unco  shaver 
For  monie  a  day.' 

"  Dam't,  but  Burns  is  gude." 

"  Huts  man,  dinna  sweer  sae  muckle!  "  frowned  the 
old  Provost. 

"  Ou,  there's  waur  than  an  oath  now  and  than,"  said 
the  baker.  "  Like  spice  in  a  bun  it  lends  a  briskness. 
But  it  needs  the  hearty  manner  wi't.  The  Deacon  there 
couldna  let  blatter  wi'  a  hearty  oath  to  save  his  withered 
sowl.  I  kenned  a  trifle  o'  a  fellow  that  got  in  among 
a  jovial  gang  lang-syne  that  used  to  sweer  tremendous, 
and  he  bude  to  do  the  same  the  bit  bodie! — so  he  used 
to  say  'Dim  it!"  in  a  wee  sma  voice  that  was  clean 
rideec'lous. — He  was  a  lauchable  dirt,  that." 

"  What  was  his  name?  "  said  Sandy  Toddle. 

"  Your  ain,"  said  the  baker.  (To  tell  the  truth,  he 
was  gey  fou.)  "  Alexander  Toddle  was  his  name:  '  Dim 
it ! '  he  used  to  squeak,  for  he  had  been  a  Scotch  cuddy 
in  the  Midlands,  and  whiles  he  used  the  English.  '  Dim 
it!  '  said  he.     I  like  a  man  that  says  '  Dahm't.'  " 

"Aye,  but  then,  you  thee,  you're  an  artitht  in  wordth," 
said  the  Deacon. 

[  225  ] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GREEN  SHUTTERS 

"  Ye're  an  artist  in  spite,"  said  the  baker. 

"Ah,  well,"  said  the  ex-Provost,  "  Burns  proved  to  be 
wrang  in  the  end  o't,  and  you'll  maybe  be  the  same. 
George  the  Fort'  didna  fill  the  throne  verra  doucely  for 
a'  their  cleishmaclaver,  and  I  don't  think  young  Gour- 
lay'U  fill  the  pulpit  verra  doucely  for  a'  ours.  For  he's 
saftie  and  daftie  baith — and  that's  the  deidly  combina- 
tion. At  least,  that's  my  opinion,"  quoth  he,  and 
smacked  his  lips,  the  important  man. 

"  Tyuts,"  said  the  baker,  "  folk  should  be  kind  to 
folk.  There  may  be  a  possibeelity  for  the  Gourlays  in 
the  youngster  yet!  " 

He  would  have  said  more,  but  at  that  moment  his 
sonsy  big  Avife  came  out,  with  oh!  such  a  roguish  and 
kindly  smile,  and,  "  Tom,  Tom,"  said  she,  "  what  are 
ye  havering  here  for?  C'way  in,  man,  and  have  a  dish 
o'  tea  wi'  me!  " 

He  glanced  up  at  her  with  comic  shrewdness  from 
where  he  sat  on  his  hunkers — for  fine  he  saw  through 
her — and  "  Ou  aye,"  said  he,  "  ye  great  muckle  fat 
hotch  o'  a  dacent  bodie,  ye — I'll  gang  in  and  have  a  dish 
o'  tea  wi'  ye."    And  away  went  the  fine  fuddled  fellow. 

"  She's  a  wise  woman,  that,"  said  the  ex-Provost  look- 
ing after  them.  "  She  kenned  no  to  flyte,  and  he  went 
like  a  lamb." 

"  I  believe  he'th  feared  o'  her,"  snapped  the  Deacon, 
"  or  he  wudny-un  went  thae  lamb-like!  " 

"  Leave  him  alone!  "  said  Johnny  Coe,  who  had  been 
drinking  too.  "  He's  the  only  kind  heart  in  Barbie. 
And  Gourlay's  the  only  gentleman." 

"  Gentleman!  "  cried  Sandy  Toddle.  "  Lord  save  us! 
Auld  Gourlay  a  gentleman!  " 

[  226  ] 


CHAPTER  TWENTY- ONE 


<i 


Yes,  gentleman!  "  said  Johnny,  to  whom  the  drink 
gave  a  courage.  "  Brute,  if  ye  like,  but  aristocrat  frae 
scalp  to  heel.  If  he  had  brains,  and  a  dacent  wife,  and 
a  bigger  field — oh,  man,"  said  Johnny,  visioning  the 
possibility,  "  Auld  Gourla  could  conquer  the  world,  if 
he  swalled  his  neck  till't." 

"  It  would  be  a  big  conquest  that!  "  said  the  Deacon. 
— "  Here  comes  his  son  taking  his  ain  share  o'  the  earth 
at  ony  rate." 

Young  Gourlay  came  staggering  round  the  corner, 
"  a  little  sprung  "  (as  they  phrase  it  in  Barbie),  but  not 
so  bad  as  they  had  hoped  to  see  him.  Webster  and  the 
ragman  had  exaggerated  the  condition  of  their  fellow- 
toper.  Probably  their  own  oscillation  lent  itself  to 
everything  they  saw.  John  zig-zagged,  it  is  true,  but 
otherwise  he  was  fairly  steady  on  his  pins.  Unluckily, 
however,  failing  to  see  a  stone  before  on  the  road,  he 
tripped  and  v.ent  sprawling  on  his  hands  and  knees. 
A  titter  went. 

"What  the  hell  are  you  laughing  at?"  he  snarled, 
leaping  up;  quick  to  feel  the  slight,  blatant  to  resent  it. 

"  Tyuts  man!  "  Tarn  Wylie  rebuked  him  in  a  careless 
scorn. 

With  a  parting  scowl  he  went  swaggering  up  the 
street. 

"Aye!  "  said  Toddle  drily,  "  that's  the  Gourlay  pos- 
sibeelity." 


[  227] 


XXII 

"Ah,  ha.  Deacon,  my  old  cock,  here  you  are!  "  The 
speaker  smote  the  Deacon  between  his  thin  shoulder- 
blades,  till  the  hat  leapt  on  his  startled  cranium.  "  No, 
not  a  lengthy  stay — Just  down  for  a  flying  visit  to  see 
my  little  girl.  Dem'd  glad  to  get  back  to  town  again — 
Barbie's  too  quiet  for  my  tastes.  No  life  in  the  place, 
no  life  at  all!  " 

The  speaker  was  Davie  Aird,  draper  and  buck.  "  No 
life  at  all,"  he  cried,  as  he  shot  down  his  cuffs  with  a 
jerk,  and  swung  up  and  down  the  barroom  of  the  Eed 
Lion.  He  was  dressed  in  a  long  fawn  overcoat  reach- 
ing to  his  heels,  with  two  big  yellow  buttons  at  the  waist 
behind,  in  the  most  approved  fashion  of  the  horsey. 
He  paused  in  his  swaggering  to  survey  the  backs  of  his 
long  white  delicate  hands,  holding  them  side  by  side 
before  him,  as  if  to  make  sure  they  were  the  same  size. 
He  was  letting  the  Deacon  see  his  ring.  Then  pursing 
his  chin  down,  with  a  fastidious  and  critical  regard,  he 
picked  a  long  fair  hair  off  his  left  coat-sleeve.  He  held 
it  high  as  he  had  seen  them  do  on  the  stage  of  the  Thea- 
tre Eoyal.  "  Sweet  souvenir!  "  he  cried,  and  kissed  it, 
"  most  dear  remembrance!  " 

The  Deacon  fed  on  the  sight.  The  richness  of  his 
satiric  perception  was  too  great  to  permit  of  speech. 
He  could  only  gloat  and  be  dumb. 

"  Waiting  for  Jack   Gourlay,"   Aird   rattled  again. 

[  228] 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-TWO 

"He's  oil  to  College  again,  and  we're  driving  in  his 
father's  trap  to  meet  the  express  at  Skeighan  Station. 
Wonder  what's  keeping  the  fellow.  I  like  a  man  to  bo 
punctnal.  Business  training,  you  see — yes,  by  Gad,  two 
thousand  parcels  a  week  go  out  of  our  place,  and  all  of 
'em  up  to  time!  Ah,  there  he  is,"  he  added,  as  the 
harsh  grind  of  wheels  was  heard  on  the  gravel  at  the 
door.     "  Thank  God,  we'll  soon  be  in  civilisation." 

Young  Gourlay  entered  great-coated  and  lordly, 
through  the  two  halves  of  that  easy-swinging  door. 

"  Good!  "  he  cried.  "  Just  a  minute,  Aird,  till  I  get 
my  flask  filled." 

"  My  weapon's  primed  and  ready,"  Aird  ha-ha'd,  and 
slapped  the  breast  pocket  of  his  coat. 

John  birled  a  bright  sovereign  on  the  counter,  one  of 
twenty  old  Gourlay  had  battered  his  brains  to  get  to- 
gether for  the  boy's  expenses.  The  young  fellow  rattled 
the  change  into  his  trouser-pocket  like  a  master  of  mil- 
lions. 

The  Deacon,  and  another  idler  or  two,  gathered  about 
the  steps  in  the  darkness,  to  see  that  royal  going  off. 
Peter  Kiney's  bunched-up  little  old  figure  could  be  seen 
on  the  front  seat  of  the  gig;  Aird  was  already  mounted 
behind.  The  mare  (a  worthy  successor  to  Spanking 
Tam)  pawed  the  gravel  and  fretted  in  impatience;  her 
sharp  ears,  seen  pricked  against  the  gloom,  worked  to 
and  fro.  A  widening  cone  of  light  shone  out  from  the 
leftward  lamp  of  the  gig,  full  on  a  glistering  laurel, 
which  Simpson  had  growing  by  his  porch.  Each 
smooth  leaf  of  the  green  bush  gave  back  a  separate 
gleam,  vivid  to  the  eye  in  that  pouring  yellowness. 
Gourlay  stared  at  the  bright  evergreen,  and  forgot  for 

[229] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GREEN  SHUTTERS 

a  moment  where  he  was.  His  lips  parted,  and — as  they 
saw  in  the  light  from  the  door — his  look  grew  dreamy 
and  far-away. 

The  truth  was  that  all  the  impressions  of  a  last  day  at 
home  were  bitten  in  on  his  brain  as  by  acid,  in  the  very 
middle  of  his  swaggering  gusto.  That  gusto  was 
largely  real,  true,  for  it  seemed  a  fine  thing  to  go 
splurging  off  to  College  in  a  gig;  but  it  was  still  more 
largely  assumed,  to  combat  the  sorrow  of  departure. 
His  lieart  was  in  his  boots  at  the  thought  of  going  back 
to  accursed  Edinburgh — to  those  lodgings,  those  dreary, 
damnable  lodgings.  Thus  his  nature  was  reduced  to 
its  real  elements  in  the  hour  of  leaving  home;  it  was 
only  for  a  swift  moment  he  forgot  to  splurge,  but  for 
that  moment  the  cloak  of  his  swaggering  dropped  away 
and  he  was  his  naked  self,  morbidly  alive  to  the  impres- 
sions of  the  world,  afraid  of  life,  clinging  to  the  familiar 
and  the  known.  That  was  why  he  gazed  with  wistful 
eyes  at  that  laurel  clump,  so  vivid  in  the  pouring  rays. 
So  vivid  there,  it  stood  for  all  the  dear  country  round 
which  was  now  hidden  by  the  darkness;  it  centred  his 
world  among  its  leaves.  It  was  a  last  picture  of  loved 
Barbie  that  was  fastening  on  his  mind.  There  would  be 
fine  gardens  in  Edinburgh,  no  doubt,  but,  oh,  that 
couthie  laurel  by  the  Red  Lion  door!  It  was  his 
friend;  he  had  known  it  always. 

The  spell  lasted  but  a  moment,  one  of  those  moments 
searching  a  man's  nature  to  its  depths,  yet  flitting  like 
a  lonely  sliadow  on  the  autumn  wheat.  But  Aird  was 
already  fidgetting.  "  Hurry  up,  Jack,"  he  cried,  "  we'll 
need  to  pelt  if  we  mean  to  get  the  train." 

Gourlay  started.     In  a  moment  he  had  slipped  from 

[  ,'^30  ] 


CHAPTER   TWENTY-TWO 

one  self  to  another,  and  was  the  blusterer  once  more. 
"  Right!  "  he  splurged,  "  hover  a  blink  till  I  light  my 
cigar." 

He  was  not  in  the  habit  of  smoking  cigars,  but  he  had 
bought  a  packet  on  purpose,  that  he  might  light  one 
before  his  admiring  onlookers  ere  he  went  away.  Noth- 
ing like  cutting  a  dash. 

He  was  seen  puffing  for  a  moment  with  indrawn 
cheeks,  his  head  to  one  side,  the  flame  of  the  flickering 
vesta  lighting  up  his  face,  his  hat  pushed  back  till  it 
rested  on  his  collar,  his  fair  hair  hanging  down  his 
brow.  Then  he  sprang  to  the  driving  seat  and  gath- 
ered up  the  reins.  "  Ta-ta,  Deacon;  see  and  behave 
yourself! "  he  flung  across  his  shoulder,  and  they  were 
off  with  a  bound. 

"Im-pidenth!  "  said  the  outraged  Deacon. 

Peter  Riney  was  quite  proud  to  have  the  honour  of 
driving  two  such  bucks  to  the  station.  It  lent  him  a 
consequence;  he  would  be  able  to  say  when  he  came 
back  that  he  had  been  "  awa  wi'  the  young  mester  " — 
for  Peter  said  "  mester,"  and  was  laughed  at  by  the 
Barbie  wits  who  knew  that  "  maister  "  was  the  proper 
English.  The  splurging  twain  rallied  him  and  drew 
him  out  in  talk,  passed  him  their  flasks  at  the  Brownie's 
Brae,  had  him  tee-heeing  at  their  nonsense.  It  was  a 
full-blooded  night  to  the  withered  little  man. 

That  was  how  young  Gourlay  left  Barbie  for  what  was 
to  prove  his  last  session  at  the  University. 

All  Gourlay's  swankie  chaps  had  gone  with  the  going 
of  his  trade;  only  Peter  Riney,  the  queer  little  oddity, 
remained.     There  was  a  loyal  simplicity  in  Peter  which 

[231] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GREEK  SHUTTERS 

never  allowed  him  to  question  the  Gourlays.  He  had 
been  too  long  in  their  service  to  be  of  use  to  any  other; 
while  there  was  a  hand's  turn  to  be  done  about  the 
House  with  the  Green  Shutters,  he  was  glad  to  have 
the  chance  of  doing  it.  His  respect  for  his  surly  tyrant 
was  as  great  as  ever;  he  took  his  pittance  of  a  wage  and 
was  thankful.  Above  all  he  worshipped  young  Gour- 
lay;  to  be  in  touch  with  a  College-bred  man  was  a  re- 
flected glory;  even  the  escapades  noised  about  the  little 
town,  to  his  gleeful  ignorance,  were  the  signs  of  a  man 
of  the  world.  Peter  chuckled  when  he  heard  them 
talked  of.  "  Terr'ble  clever  fallow,  the  young  mester!  " 
the  bowed  little  man  would  say,  sucking  his  pipe  of  an 
evening,  "  terr'ble  clever  fallow,  the  young  mester — 
and  hardy,  too;  infernal  hardy! "  Loyal  Peter  be- 
lieved it. 

But  ere  four  months  had  gone,  Peter  was  discharged. 
It  was  on  the  day  after  Gourlay  sold  Black  Sally,  the 
mare,  to  get  a  little  money  to  go  on  with. 

It  was  a  bright  spring  day,  of  enervating  softness,  a 
fosie  day,  a  day  when  the  pores  of  everything  seemed 
opened.  People's  brains  felt  pulpy,  and  they  sniffed 
as  with  winter's  colds.  Peter  Riney  was  opening  a  pit 
of  potatoes  in  the  big  garden,  shovelling  aside  the  foot- 
deep  mould,  and  tearing  off  the  inner  covering  of  yellow 
straw — which  seemed  strange  and  unnatural,  somehow, 
when  suddenly  revealed  in  its  glistening  dryness,  be- 
neath the  moist  dark  earth.  Little  crumbles  of  mould 
trickled  down,  in  among  the  flattened  shining  straws. 
In  a  tree  near  Peter,  two  pigeons  were  gurgling  and 
rookety-cooing,  mating  for  the  coming  year.  He  fell  to 
sorting  out  the  potatoes,  throwing  the  bad  ones  on  a 

[232] 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-TWO 

heap  aside — "  tattie-walin,"  as  they  call  it  in  the  north. 
The  enervating  softness  was  at  work  on  Peter's  head, 
too,  and  from  time  to  time,  as  he  waled,  he  wiped  his 
nose  on  his  sleeve. 

Gourlay  watched  him  for  a  long  time  without  speak- 
ing. Once  or  twice  he  moistened  his  lips,  and  cleared 
his  throat,  and  frowned — as  one  who  would  broach  un- 
pleasant news.  It  was  not  like  him  to  hesitate.  But  the 
old  man,  encased  in  senility,  was  ill  to  disturb;  he  was 
intent  on  nothing  but  the  work  before  him;  it  was  me- 
chanical and  soothing  and  occupied  his  whole  mind. 
Gourlay,  so  often  the  trampling  brute  without  knowing 
it,  felt  it  brutal  to  wound  the  faithful  old  creature 
dreaming  at  his  toil.  He  would  have  found  it  mucli 
easier  to  discharge  a  younger  and  a  keener  man. 

"  Stop,  Peter,"  he  said  at  last;  "  I  don't  need  you  ainy 
more." 

Peter  rose  stiffly  from  his  knees  and  shook  the  mould 
with  a  pitiful  gesture  from  his  hands.  His  mouth  was 
fallen  slack,  and  showed  a  few  yellow  tusks. 

"  Eh?  "  he  asked  vaguely.  The  thought  that  he  must 
leave  the  Gourlays  could  not  penetrate  his  mind. 

"  I  don't  need  you  ainy  more,"  said  Gourlay  again,  and 
met  his  eye  steadily. 

"  I'm  gey  auld,"  said  Peter,  still  shaking  his  hands 
with  that  pitiful  gesture,  "  but  I  only  need  a  bite  and  a 
sup.    Man,  I'm  willin'  to  tak  onything." 

"It's  no  that,"  said  Gourlay  sourly,  "it's  no  that. 
But  I'm  giving  up  the  business." 

Peter  said  nothing,  but  gazed  away  down  the  garden, 
his  sunken  mouth  forgetting  to  munch  its  straw,  which 
dangled  by  his  chin.     "  I'm  an  auld  servant,"  he  said 

[333  1 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GKEEN  SHUTTERS 

at  last,  "  and  mind  ye,"  he  flashed  in  pride,  "  I'm  a 
true  ane." 

"  Oh,  you're  a'  that,"  Gourlay  grunted;  "  you  have 
been  a  good  servant." 

"  It'll  be  the  poorhouse,  it's  like,"  mused  Peter. 
"  Man,  have  ye  noathing  for  us  to  do?  "  he  asked  plead- 
ingly. 

Gourlay's  jaw  clamped.  "  Noathing,  Peter,"  he  said 
sullenly,  "  noathing ";  and  slipped  some  money  into 
Peter's  heedless  palm. 

Peter  stared  stupidly  down  at  the  coins.  He  seemed 
dazed.  "Aye,  weel,"  he  said;  "  I'll  feenish  the  tatties  at 
ony  rate." 

"  No,  no,  Peter,"  and  Gourlay  gripped  him  by  the 
shoulder  as  he  turned  back  to  his  work,  "  no,  no;  I  have 
no  right  to  keep  you.  Never  mind  about  the  money — 
you  deserve  something,  going  so  suddenly  after  sic  a  long 
service.  It's  just  a  bit  present  to  mind  you  o' — to  mind 
you  o' — "  he  broke  off  suddenly  and  scowled  across  the 
garden. 

Some  men,  when  a  feeling  touches  them,  express 
their  emotion  in  tears;  others  by  an  angry  scowl — hating 
themselves  inwardly,  perhaps,  for  their  weakness  in  be- 
ing moved,  hating,  too,  the  occasion  that  has  probed 
their  weakness.  It  was  because  he  felt  parting  with 
Peter  so  keenly  that  Gourlay  behaved  more  sullenly 
than  usual.  Peter  had  been  with  Gourlay's  father  in 
his  present  master's  boyhood,  had  always  been  faithful 
and  submissive;  in  his 'humble  way  was  nearer  the  grain 
merchant  than  any  other  man  in  Barbie.  He  was  the 
only  human  being  Gourlay  had  ever  deigned  to  joke 
with;  and  that,  in  itself,  won  him  an  affection.    More, 

[334] 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-TWO 

the  going  of  Peter  meant  the  going  of  everything.  It 
cut  Gourlay  to  the  quick.     Therefore  he  scowled. 

Without  a  word  of  thanks  for  the  money,  Peter 
knocked  the  mould  off  his  heavy  boots,  striking  one 
against  the  other  clumsily,  and  shuffled  away  across  the 
bare  soil.  But  when  he  had  gone  twenty  yards,  he 
stopped,  and  came  back  slowly.  "  Good-bye,  sir,"  he 
said  with  a  rueful  smile,  and  held  out  his  hand. 

Gourlay  gripped  it.  "  Good-bye,  Peter!  good-bye; 
damn  ye,  man,  good-bye!  " 

Peter  wondered  vaguely  why  he  was  sworn  at.  But 
he  felt  that  it  was  not  in  anger.  He  still  clung  to  his 
master's  hand.  "  I've  been  fifty  year  wi'  the  Gourlays," 
said  he.     "Aye,  aye;  and  this,  it  seems,  is  the  end  o't." 

"  Oh,  gang  away! "  cried  Gourlay,  "  gang  away, 
man!"     And  Peter  went  away. 

Gourlay  went  out  to  the  big  green  gate  where  he  had 
often  stood  in  his  pride,  and  watched  his  old  servant 
going  down  the  street.  Peter  was  so  bowed  that  the 
back  of  his  velveteen  coat  was  half-way  up  his  spine,  and 
the  bulging  pockets  at  the  corners  were  mid-way  down 
his  thighs.  Gourlay  had  seen  the  fact  a  thousand  times, 
but  it  never  gripped  him  before.  He  stared  till  Peter 
disappeared  round  the  Bend  o'  the  Brae. 

"Aye,  aye,"  said  he  "  aye,  aye.  There  goes  the  last 
o'  them." 

It  was  a  final  run  of  ill-luck  that  brought  Gourlay  to 
this  desperate  pass.  When  everything  seemed  to  go 
against  him,  he  tried  several  speculations,  with  a  gam- 
bler's hope  that  they  might  do  well,  and  retrieve  the 
situation.  He  abandoned  the  sensible  direction  of 
affairs,  that  is,  and  trusted  entirely  to  chance,  as  men  are 

[  235] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GREEN  SHUTTERS 

apt  to  do  when  despairing.  And  chance  betrayed  him. 
He  found  himself  of  a  sudden  at  the  end  of  his  resources. 
Through  all  his  troubles  his  one  consolation  was  the 
fact  that  he  had  sent  John  to  the  University.  That  was 
something  saved  from  the  wreck  at  any  rate.  More  and 
more,  as  his  other  supports  fell  away,  Gourlay  attached 
himself  to  the  future  of  his  son.  It  became  the  sheet- 
anchor  of  his  hojies.  If  he  had  remained  a  prosperous 
man  John's  success  would  have  been  merely  incidental, 
something  to  disconsider  in  speech,  at  least,  however 
pleased  he  might  have  been  at  heart.  But  now  it  was 
the  whole  of  life  to  him.  For  one  thing,  the  son's  suc- 
cess would  justify  the  father's  past  and  prevent  it  being 
quite  useless;  it  would  have  produced  a  minister,  a  suc- 
cessful man,  one  of  an  esteemed  profession.  Again, 
that  success  would  be  a  salve  to  Gourlay's  wounded 
pride;  the  Gourlays  would  show  Barbie  they  could  flour- 
ish yet,  in  spite  of  their  present  downcome.  Thus,  in 
the  collapse  of  his  fortunes,  the  son  grew  all-important 
in  the  father's  eyes.  Nor  did  his  own  poverty  seem  to 
him  a  just  bar  to  his  son's  prosperity.  "  I  have  put  him 
through  his  Arts,"  thought  Gourlay;  "  surely  he  can  do 
the  rest  himsell.  Lots  of  young  chaps,  when  they 
warstle  through  their  Arts,  teach  the  sons  of  swells  to 
get  a  little  money  to  gang  through  Diveenity.  My  boy 
can  surely  do  the  like! "  Again  and  again,  as  Gourlay 
felt  himself  slipping  under  in  the  world  of  Barbie,  his 
hopes  turned  to  John  in  Edinburgh.  If  that  boy  would 
only  hurry  up  and  get  through,  to  make  a  hame  for  the 
lassie  and  the  auld  wife! 


[236] 


XXIII 

Young  Gourlay  spent  that  winter  in  Edinburgh 
pretty  much  as  he  had  spent  the  last.  Last  winter,  how- 
ever, it  was  simply  a  weak  need  for  companionship  that 
drew  him  to  the  Howff.  This  winter  it  was  more,  it 
was  the  need  of  a  formed  habit  that  must  have  its 
wonted  satisfaction.  He  had  a  further  impulse  to  con- 
viviality now.  It  had  become  a  habit  that  compelled 
him. 

The  diversions  of  some  men  are  merely  subsidiary  to 
their  lives,  externals  easy  to  be  dropped;  with  others 
they  usurp  the  man.  They  usurp  a  life  when  it  is  never 
happy  away  from  them,  when  in  the  midst  of  other  oc- 
cupations absent  pleasures  rise  vivid  to  the  mind,  with 
an  irresistible  call.  Young  Gourlay's  too-seeing  imag- 
ination, always  visioning  absent  delights,  combined  with 
his  weakness  of  will,  never  gripping  to  the  work  before 
him,  to  make  him  hate  his  lonely  studies  and  long  for 
the  jolly  company  of  his  friends.  He  never  opened  his 
books  of  an  evening  but  he  thought  to  himself:  "  I  won- 
der what  they're  doing  at  the  Howff  to-night?  "  At 
once  he  visualized  the  scene,  imagined  every  detail,  saw 
them  in  their  jovial  hours.  And,  seeing  them  so  happy, 
he  longed  to  be  with  them.  On  that  night,  long  ago, 
when  his  father  ordered  him  to  College,  his  cowardly 
and  too  vivid  mind  thought  of  the  ploys  the  fellows 
would  be  having  along  the  Barbie  roads,  while  he  was 

[337] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GKEEN  SHUTTERS 

mewed  up  in  Edinburgh.  He  saw  the  Barbie  rollickers 
in  his  mind's  eye,  and  the  student  in  his  lonely  rooms, 
and  contrasted  them  mournfully.  So  now,  every  night, 
he  saw  the  cosy  companions  in  their  Howlf,  and  shiv- 
ered at  his  own  isolation.  He  felt  a  tugging  at  his 
heart  to  be  off  and  join  them.  And  his  will  was  so  weak 
that,  nine  times  out  of  ten,  he  made  no  resistance  to  the 
impulse. 

He  had  always  a  feeling  of  depression  when  he  must 
sit  down  to  his  books.  It  was  the  start  that  gravelled 
him.  He  would  look  round  his  room  and  hate  it,  mut- 
ter "  Damn  it,  I  must  work  " — and  then,  with  a  heavy 
sigh,  would  seat  himself  before  an  outspread  volume  on 
the  table,  tugging  the  hair  on  a  puckered  forehead. 
Sometimes  the  depression  left  him,  when  he  buckled  to 
his  work;  as  his  mind  became  occupied  with  other  things 
the  vision  of  the  Ho\vff  was  expelled.  Usually,  how- 
ever, the  stiffness  of  his  brains  made  the  reading  drag 
heavily,  and  he  rarely  attained  the  sufficing  happiness 
of  a  student  eager  and  engrossed.  At  the  end  of  ten 
minutes  he  would  be  gaping  across  the  table,  and  won- 
dering what  they  were  doing  at  the  Howff .  "  Will  Lo- 
gan be  singing  *  Tarn  Glen?'  Or  is  Gillespie  fiddling 
Highland  tunes,  by  Jing,  with  his  elbow  going  it  mer- 
rily? Lord!  I  would  like  to  hear  '  Miss  Drummond  o' 
Perth  '  or  '  Gray  Daylicht ' — they  might  buck  me  up  a 
bit.  I'll  just  slip  out  for  ten  minutes,  to  to  see  what 
they're  doing,  and  be  back  directly."  He  came  back  at 
two  in  the  morning,  staggering. 

On  a  bleak  spring  evening,  near  the  end  of  February, 
young  Gourlay  had  gone  to  the  Howff,  to  escape  the 
shuddering  misery  of  the  streets.     It  was  that  treacher- 

[238] 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-THREE 

ous  spring  weather  which  blights.  Only  two  days  ago, 
the  air  had  been  sluggish  and  balmy;  now  an  easterly 
wind  nipped  the  grey  city,  naked  and  bare.  There  was 
light  enough,  with  the  lengthening  days,  to  see,  plainly, 
the  rawness  of  the  world.  There  were  cold  yellow 
gleams  in  windows  fronting  a  lonely  west.  Uncertain 
little  puffs  of  wind  came  swirling  round  corners,  and 
made  dust,  and  pieces  of  dirty  white  paper,  gyrate  on 
the  roads.  Prosperous  old  gentlemen  pacing  home,  ro- 
tund in  their  buttoned-up  coats,  had  clear  drops  at 
the  end  of  their  noses.  Sometimes  they  stopped — their 
trouser-legs  flapping  behind  them — and  trumpetted 
loudly  into  red  silk  handkerchiefs.  Young  Gourlay 
had  fled  the  streets.  It  was  the  kind  of  night  that 
made  him  cower. 

By  eight  o'clock,  however,  he  was  merry  with  the  bar- 
ley-bree,  and  making  a  butt  of  himself  to  amuse  the 
company.  He  was  not  quick-witted  enough  to  banter 
a  comrade  readily,  nor  hardy  enough  to  essay  it  unpro- 
voked; on  the  other  hand  his  swaggering  love  of  notice 
impelled  him  to  some  form  of  talk  that  would  attract 
attention.  So  he  made  a  point  of  always  coming  with 
daft  stories  of  things  comic  that  befell  him — at  least,  he 
said  they  did.  But  if  his  efforts  were  greeted  with  too 
loud  a  roar,  implying  not  only  appreciation  of  the 
stories,  but  also  a  contempt  for  the  man  who  could  tell 
them  of  himself,  his  sensitive  vanity  was  immediately 
wounded,  and  he  swelled  with  sulky  anger.  And  the 
moment  after  he  would  splurge  and  bluster  to  reassert 
his  dignity. 

"  I  remember  when  I  was  a  boy,"  he  hiccuped,  "  I  had 
a  pet  goose  at  home." 

[239] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GREEN  SHUTTERS 

There  was  a  titter  at  the  queer  beginning. 

"  I  was  to  get  the  price  of  it  for  myself,  and  so  when 
Christmas  drew  near,  I  went  to  old  MacFarlane,  the 
poulterer  in  Skeighan.  '  Will  you  buy  a  goose?  '  said  I. 
*  Are  ye  for  sale,  my  man?  '  was  his  answer." 

Armstrong  flung  back  his  head  and  roared,  prolonging 
the  loud  ho-ho!  through  his  big  nose  and  open  mouth 
long  after  the  impulse  to  honest  laughter  was  exhausted. 
He  always  laughed  with  false  loudness,  to  indicate  his 
own  superiority,  when  he  thought  a  man  had  been 
guilty  of  a  public  silliness.  The  laugh  was  meant  to 
show  the  company  how  far  above  such  folly  was  Mr. 
Armstrong. 

Gourlay  scowled.  "  Damn  Armstrong!  "  he  thought, 
"  what  did  he  yell  like  that  for?  Does  he  think  I  didn't 
see  the  point  of  the  joke  against  myself?  Would  I  have 
told  it  if  I  hadn't?  This  is  what  comes  of  being  sensi- 
tive. I'm  always  too  sensitive!  I  felt  there  was  an 
awkward  silence,  and  I  told  a  story  against  myself  to 
dispel  it  in  fun,  and  this  is  what  I  get  for't.  Curse  the 
big  brute,  he  thinks  I  have  given  myself  away.  But 
I'll  show  him! " 

He  was  already  mellow,  but  he  took  another  swig  to 
hearten  him,  as  was  his  habit. 

"  There's  a  damned  sight  too  much  yell  about  your 
laugh,  Armstrong,"  he  said,  truly  enough,  getting  a 
courage  from  his  anger  and  the  drink.  "  No  gentle- 
man laughs  like  that." 

"  *  Risu  inepto  res  ineptior  nulla  est,'  "  said  Tarmillan, 
who  was  on  one  of  his  rare  visits  to  the  HowflF.  He  was 
too  busy  and  too  wise  a  man  to  frequent  it  greatly. 

Armstrong  blushed;  and  Gourlay  grew  big  and  brave, 

[  240  ] 


CHAPTER   TWENTY-THREE 

in  the  backing  of  the  great  Tarmillan.  He  took  another 
swig  on  the  strength  of  it.  But  his  resentment  was 
still  surging.  When  Tarmillan  went,  and  the  three 
students  were  left  by  themselves,  Gourlay  continued  to 
nag  and  bluster,  for  that  blatant  laugh  of  Armstrong's 
rankled  in  his  mind. 

"  I  saw  Hepburn  in  the  street  to-day,"  said  Gillespie, 
by  way  of  a  diversion. 

"  Who's  Hepburn?  "  snapped  Gourlay. 

"  Oh,  don't  you  remember?  He's  the  big  Border 
chap  who  got  into  a  row  with  auld  Tam  on  the  day  you 
won  your  prize  essay."  (That  should  surely  appease 
the  fool,  thought  Gillespie.)  "  It  was  only  for  the  fun 
of  the  thing  Hepburn  was  at  College,  for  he  has  lots  of 
money;  and,  here,  he  never  apologized  to  Tam!  He  said 
he  would  go  down  first." 

"  He  was  damned  right,"  spluttered  Gourlay.  "  Some 
of  these  Profs,  think  too  much  of  themselves.  They 
wouldn't  bully  me!  There's  good  stuff  in  the  Gour- 
lays,"  he  went  on  with  a  meaning  look  at  Armstrong; 
"  they're  not  to  be  scoffed  at.  I  would  stand  insolence 
from  no  man." 

"Aye,  man,"  said  Armstrong,  "  would  you  face  up  to 
a  professor?  " 

"Wouldn't  I?"  said  the  tipsy  youth,  "and  to  you, 
too,  if  you  went  too  far." 

He  became  so  quarrelsome  as  the  night  went  on  that 
his  comrades  filled  him  up  with  drink,  in  the  hope  of 
deadening  his  ruffled  sensibilities.  It  was:  "Yes,  yes, 
Jack;  but  never  mind  about  that!  Have  another  drink, 
just  to  show  there's  no  ill-feeling  among  friends." 

^Vhen  they  left  the  Howff  they  went  to  Gillespie's  and 

[  241  ]■ 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GREEN  SHUTTERS 

drank  more,  and,  after  that,  they  roamed  about  the 
town.  At  two  in  the  morning  the  other  two  brought 
Gourlay  to  his  door.  He  was  assuring  Armstrong  he 
was  not  a  gentleman. 

When  he  went  to  bed  the  fancied  insult  he  had  suf- 
fered swelled  to  monstrous  proportions  in  his  fevered 
brain.  Did  Armstrong  despise  him?  The  thought  was 
poison!  He  lay  in  brooding  anger,  and  his  mind  was 
fluent  in  wrathful  harangues  in  some  imaginary  encoun- 
ter of  the  future,  in  which  he  was  a  glorious  victor. 
He  flowed  in  eloquent  scorn  of  Armstrong  and  his  ways. 
If  I  could  talk  like  this  always,  he  thought,  what  a  fel- 
low I  would  be!  He  seemed  gifted  with  uncanny  in- 
sight into  Armstrong's  character.  He  noted  every 
weakness  in  the  rushing  whirl  of  his  thoughts,  set  them 
in  order  one  by  one,  saw  himself  laying  bare  the  man 
with  savage  glee  when  next  they  should  encounter.  He 
would  whiten  the  big  brute's  face  by  shewing  he  had 
probed  him  to  the  quick.  Just  let  him  laugh  at  me 
again,  thought  Gourlay,  and  I'll  analyse  each  mean 
quirk  of  his  dirty  soul  to  him! 

The  drink  was  dying  in  him  now,  for  the  trio  had 
walked  for  more  than  an  hour  through  the  open  air 
when  they  left  Gillespie's  rooms.  The  stupefaction  of 
alcohol  was  gone,  leaving  his  brain  morbidly  alive.  He 
was  anxious  to  sleep,  but  drowsy  dullness  kept  away. 
His  mind  began  to  visualise  of  its  own  accord,  independ- 
ent of  his  will;  and,  one  after  another,  a  crowd  of  pic- 
tures rose  vivid  in  the  darkness  of  his  brain.  He  saw 
them  as  plainly  as  you  see  this  page — but  with  a  differ- 
ent clearness — for  they  seemed  nnnatural,  belonging  to 
a  morbid  world.     Nor  did  one  suggest  the  other;  there 

[  242] 


CHAPTER   TWENTY-THREE 

was  no  connection  between  them;  each  came  vivid  of 
its  own  accord. 

First  it  was  an  old  pit-frame  on  a  barren  moor,  gaunt 
against  the  yellow  west.  Gourlay  saw  bars  of  iron,  left 
when  the  pit  was  abandoned,  reddened  by  the  rain;  and 
the  mounds  of  rubbish,  and  the  scattered  bricks,  and  the 
rusty  clinkers  from  the  furnace,  and  the  melancholy 
shining  pools.  A  four-wheeled  old  trolley  had  lost  two 
of  its  wheels,  and  was  tilted  at  a  slant,  one  square  end 
of  it  resting  on  the  ground. 

"  Why  do  I  think  of  an  old  pit?  "  he  thought  angrily; 
"  curse  it,  why  can't  I  sleep?  " 

Next  moment  he  was  gazing  at  a  ruined  castle,  its 
mouldering  walls  mounded  atop  with  decaying  rubble; 
from  a  loose  crumb  of  mortar,  a  long,  thin  film  of  the 
spider's  weaving  stretched  bellying  away,  to  a  tall  weed 
waving  on  the  crazy  brink — Gourlay  saw  its  glisten  in 
the  wind.  He  saw  each  crack  in  the  wall,  each  stain  of 
lichen;  a  myriad  details  stamped  themselves  together  on 
his  raw  mind.  Then  a  constant  procession  of  figures 
passed  across  the  inner  curtain  of  his  closed  eyes.  Each 
figure  was  cowled;  but  when  it  came  directly  opposite, 
it  turned  and  looked  at  him  with  a  white  face.  "  Stop, 
stop ! "  cried  his  mind,  "  I  don't  want  to  think  of  you. 
I  don't  want  to  think  of  you,  I  don't  want  to  think  of 
you!  Go  away!  "  But  as  they  came  of  themselves,  so 
they  went  of  themselves.     He  could  not  banish  them. 

He  turned  on  his  side,  but  a  hundred  other  pictures 
pursued  him.  From  an  inland  hollow  he  saw  the  great 
dawn  flooding  up  from  the  sea,  over  a  sharp  line  of 
cliff,  wave  after  wave  of  brilliance  surging  up  the  heav- 
ens.    The  landward  slope  of  the  cliff  was  gray  with 

[  243  ] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GKEEN  SHUTTERS 

dew.  The  inland  hollow  was  full  of  little  fields,  di- 
vided by  stone  walls,  and  he  could  not  have  recalled 
the  fields  round  Barbie  with  half  their  distinctness. 
For  a  moment  they  possessed  his  brain.  Then  an  au- 
tumn wood  rose  on  his  vision.  He  was  gazing  down  a 
vista  of  yellow  leaves;  a  long,  deep  slanting  cleft,  framed 
in  lit  foliage.  Leaves,  leaves;  everywhere  yellow  leaves, 
luminous,  burning.  He  saw  them  falling  through  the 
lucid  air.  The  scene  was  as  vivid  as  fire  to  his  brain, 
though  of  magic  stillness.  Then  the  foliage  changed 
suddenly  to  great  serpents  twined  about  the  boughs. 
Their  colours  were  of  monstrous  beauty.  They  glis- 
tened as  they  moved. 

He  leapt  in  his  bed  with  a  throb  of  horror.  Could 
this  be  the  delirium  of  drink?  But  no;  he  had  often 
had  an  experience  like  this  when  he  was  sleepless;  he 
had  the  learned  description  of  it  pat  and  ready;  it  was 
only  automatic  visualisation. 

Damn!  Why  couldn't  he  sleep?  He  flung  out  of 
bed,  uncorked  a  bottle  with  his  teeth,  tilted  it  up,  and 
gulped  the  gurgling  fire  in  the  darkness.  Ha!  that  was 
better. 

His  room  was  already  gray  with  the  coming  dawn. 
He  went  to  the  window  and  opened  it.  The  town  was 
stirring  uneasily  in  its  morning  sleep.  Somewhere  in 
the  distance  a  train  was  shunting;  clanJc,  dank,  clank 
went  the  waggons.  What  an  accursed  sound!  A  dray 
went  past  the  end  of  his  street  rumbling  hollowly,  and 
the  rumble  died  drearily  away.  Tlien  the  footsteps  of 
an  early  workman  going  to  his  toil  were  heard  in  the 
deserted  thoroughfare.  Gourlay  looked  down  and  saw 
him  pass  far  beneath  him  on  the  glimmering  pavement. 

[244] 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-THREE 

He  was  whistling.  Why  did  the  fool  whistle?  What 
had  he  got  to  whistle  about?  It  was  unnatural  that 
one  man  should  go  whistling  to  his  work,  when  another 
had  not  been  able  to  sleep  the  whole  night  long. 

He  took  another  vast  glut  of  whiskey,  and  the  mo- 
ment after  was  dead  to  the  world. 

He  was  awakened  at  eight  o'clock  by  a  monstrous 
hammering  on  his  door.  By  the  excessive  loudness  of 
the  first  knock  he  heard  on  returning  to  consciousness, 
he  knew  that  his  landlady  had  lost  her  temper  in  trying 
to  get  him  up.  Ere  he  could  sliout  she  had  thumped 
again.  He  stared  at  the  ceiling  in  sullen  misery.  The 
middle  of  his  tongue  was  as  dry  as  bark. 

For  his  breakfast  there  were  thick  slabs  of  rancid 
bacon,  from  the  top  of  which  two  yellow  eggs  had 
spewed  themselves  away  among  the  cold  gravy.  His 
gorge  rose  at  them.  He  nibbled  a  piece  of  dry  bread 
and  drained  the  teapot;  then  shouldering  into  his  great- 
coat he  tramped  off  to  the  University. 

It  was  a  wretched  morning.  The  wind  had  veered 
once  more,  and  a  cold  drizzle  of  rain  was  falling  through 
a  yellow  fog.  The  reflections  of  the  street  lamps  in  the 
sloppy  pavement,  went  down  through  spiral  gleams,  to 
an  infinite  depth  of  misery.  Young  Gourlay's  brain  was 
aching  from  his  last  night's  debauch,  and  his  body  was 
weakened  with  the  want  both  of  sleep  and  food.  The 
cold  yellow  mist  chilled  him  to  the  bone.  Wliat  a  fool 
I  was  to  get  drunk  last  night,  he  thought.  Wliy  am  I 
here?  Why  am  I  trudging  through  mud  and  misery 
to  the  University?  What  has  it  all  got  to  do  with  me? 
Oh,  what  a  fool  I  am,  what  a  fool! 

"  Drown  dull  care,"  said  the  Devil  in  his  ear. 

[245  ] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GREEK  SHUTTEKS 

He  took  a  sixpence  from  his  trouser  pocket,  aud  looked 
down  at  the  white  bit  of  money  in  his  hand,  till  it  was 
wet  with  the  falling  rain.  Then  he  went  into  a  flashy 
tavern,  and,  standing  by  a  sloppy  bar,  drank  sixpenny- 
worth  of  cheap  whiskey.  It  went  to  his  head  at  once, 
owing  to  his  want  of  food,  and  with  a  dull  warm  feeling 
in  his  body,  he  lurched  off  to  his  first  lecture  for  the 
day.  His  outlook  on  the  world  had  changed.  The 
fog  was  now  a  comfortable  yellowness.  "  Freedom  and 
whiskey  gang  thegither,  Tak  aff  your  dram,"  he  quoted 
to  his  own  mind.  "  That  stuff  did  me  good.  Whis- 
key's the  boy  to  fettle  you." 

He  was  in  his  element  the  moment  he  entered  the 
classroom.  It  was  a  bear  garden.  The  most  moral  in- 
dividual has  his  days  of  perversity  when  a  malign  fate 
compels  him  to  show  the  worst  he  has  in  him.  A 
Scotch  University  class — which  is  many  most  moral  in- 
dividuals— has  a  similar  eruptive  tendency  when  it  gets 
into  the  hands  of  a  weak  professor.  It  will  behave  well 
enough  for  a  fortnight,  then  a  morning  comes  when 
nothing  can  control  it.  This  M^as  a  morning  of  the 
kind.  The  lecturer,  who  was  an  able  man  but  a  weak- 
ling, had  begun  by  apologising  for  the  condition  of  his 
voice,  on  the  ground  that  he  had  a  bad  cold.  Instantly 
every  man  in  the  class  was  blowing  his  nose.  One  fel- 
low, of  a  most  portentous  snout,  who  could  trumpet 
like  an  elephant,  with  a  last  triumphant  snort  sent  his 
handkerchief  across  the  room.  When  called  to  account 
for  his  conduct,  "  Really,  sir,"  he  said,  "  er-er-oom — 
bad  cold! "  Uprose  a  universal  sneeze.  Then  the 
"  roughing  "  began,  to  the  tune  of  "  John  Brown's  body 
lies  a-mouldering  in  the  .q-rave  " — which  no  man  seemed 

[  246  ] 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-THREE 

to  sing,  but  every  man  could  hear.  They  were  playing 
the  tune  with  their  feet. 

The  lecturer  glared  with  white  repugnance  at  his  tor- 
mentors. 

Young  Gourlay  flung  himself  heart  and  soul  into  the 
cruel  baiting.  It  was  partly  from  his  usual  love  of 
showing  off,  partly  from  the  drink  still  seething  within 
him;  but  largely,  also,  as  a  reaction  from  his  morning's 
misery.  This  was  another  way  of  drowning  reflection. 
The  morbidly  gloomy  one  moment,  often  shout  madly 
on  the  next. 

At  last  the  lecturer  plunged  wildly  at  the  door  and 
flung  it  open.  "  Go! "  he  shrieked,  and  pointed  in  su- 
perb dismissal. 

A  hundred  and  fifty  barbarians  sat  where  they 
were,  and  laughed  at  him;  and  he  must  needs  come 
back  to  the  platform,  with  a  baffled  and  vindictive 
glower. 

He  was  just  turning,  as  it  chanced,  when  young  Gour- 
lay put  his  hands  to  his  mouth,  and  bellowed  "  CocJc-a- 
doodle-do ! " 

Ere  the  roar  could  swell,  the  lecturer  had  leapt  to  the 
front  of  the  rostrum  with  flaming  eyes.  "  Mr.  Gourlay," 
he  screamed  furiously,  "  you  there,  sir;  you  will  apolo- 
gise humbly  to  me  for  this  outrage  at  the  end  of  the 
hour." 

There  was  a  womanish  shrillness  in  the  scream,  a 
kind  of  hysteria  on  the  stretch,  that  (contrasted  with  his 
big  threat)  might  have  provoked  them  at  other  times  to 
a  roar  of  laughter.  But  there  was  a  sincerity  in  his  rage 
to-day  that  rose  above  its  faults  of  manner,  and  an 
immediate  silence  took  the  room — the  more  impressive 

[247  1 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GREEN  SHUTTERS 

for  the  former  noise.     Every  eye  turned  to  Gourlay, 
He  sat  gaping  at  the  lecturer. 

If  he  had  been  swept  to  the  anteroom  there  and 
then,  he  would  have  been  cowed  by  the  suddenness  of 
his  own  change,  from  a  loud  tormentor  in  the  company 
of  others,  to  a  silent  culprit  in  a  room  alone.  And 
apologies  would  have  been  ready  to  tumble  out,  while 
he  was  thus  loosened  by  surprise  and  fear. 

Unluckily  he  had  time  to  think,  and  the  longer  ho 
thought  the  more  sullen  he  became.  It  was  only  an 
accident  that  led  to  his  discovery,  while  the  rest  es- 
caped, and  that  the  others  should  escape,  when  they 
were  just  as  much  to  blame  as  he  was,  was  an  injustice 
that  made  him  furious.  His  anger  was  equally  divided 
between  the  cursed  mischance  itself,  the  teacher  who 
had  "  jumped  "  on  him  so  suddenly,  and  the  other  row- 
dies who  had  escaped  to  laugh  at  his  discomfiture;  he 
had  the  same  burning  resentment  to  them  all.  When 
he  thought  of  his  chuckling  fellow-students  they  seemed 
to  engross  his  rage;  when  he  thought  of  the  mishap  ho 
damned  it  and  nothing  else;  when  he  thought  of  the 
lecturer  he  felt  he  had  no  rage  to  fling  away  upon  others 
— the  Snuffler  took  it  all.  As  his  mind  shot  backwards 
and  forwards  in  an  angry  gloom,  it  suddenly  encoun- 
tered the  image  of  his  father.  Not  a  professor  of  the  lot, 
he  reflected,  could  stand  the  look  of  black  Gourlay.  And 
he  wouldn't  knuckle  under,  either,  so  he  wouldn't.  He 
came  of  a  hardy  stock.  He  would  show  them!  He 
wasn't  going  to  lick  dirt  for  any  man.  Let  him  punish 
all  or  none,  for  they  had  all  been  kicking  up  a  row — 
why  big  Cunningham  had  been  braying  like  an  ass  only 
a  minute  before. 

[248] 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-THREE 

He  spied  Armstrong  and  Gillespie  glinting  across  at 
him  with  a  curious  look — they  were  wondering  whether 
he  had  courage  enough  to  stand  to  his  guns  with  a  pro- 
fessor. He  knew  the  meaning  of  the  look,  and  resented 
it.  He  was  on  his  mettle  before  them,  it  seemed.  The 
fellow  who  had  swaggered  at  the  Howft'  last  night  about 
"  what  he  would  do  if  a  professor  jumped  on  /itw," 
mustn't  prove  wanting  in  the  present  trial,  beneath  the 
eyes  of  those  on  whom  he  had  imposed  his  blatancy. 

When  we  think  of  what  Gourlay  did  that  day,  we  must 
remember  that  he  was  soaked  in  alcohol;  not  merely 
with  his  morning's  potation,  but  with  the  dregs  of  pre- 
vious carousals.  And  the  dregs  of  drink,  a  thorough 
toper  will  tell  you,  never  leave  him.  He  is  drunk  on 
Monday  with  his  Saturday's  debauch.  As  "  Drucken 
Wabster "  of  Barbie  put  it  once,  "  When  a  body's 
hard-up,  his  braith's  a  consolation."  If  that  be  so — and 
Wabster,  remember,  was  an  expert  whose  opinion  on 
this  matter  is  entitled  to  the  highest  credence — if  that 
be  so,  it  proves  the  strength  and  persistence  of  a  thor- 
ough alcoholic  impregnation,  or  as  Wabster  called  it,  of 
"  a  good  soak."  In  young  Gourlay's  case,  at  any  rate, 
the  impregnation  was  enduring  and  complete.  He  was 
like  a  rag  steeped  in  fusel  oil. 

As  the  end  of  the  hour  drew  near,  ho  sank  deeper  in 
his  dogged  suUenness.  When  the  class  streamed  from 
the  large  door  on  the  right,  he  turned  aside  to  the  little 
anteroom  on  the  left,  with  an  insolent  swing  of  the 
shoulders.  He  knew  the  fellows  were  watching  him 
curiously — he  felt  their  eyes  upon  his  back.  And, 
therefore,  as  he  went  through  the  little  door,  he  stood 
for  a  moment  on  his  right  foot,  and  waggled  his  left, 

[  349  ] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GREEN  SHUTTERS 

on  a  level  with  his  hip  behind,  in  a  vulgar  derision  of 
them,  the  professor,  and  the  whole  situation.  That 
was  a  fine  taunt  flung  back  at  them! 

There  is  nothing  on  earth  more  vindictive  than  a 
weakling.  When  he  gets  a  chance  he  takes  revenge 
for  everything  his  past  cowardice  forced  him  to  endure. 
The  timid  lecturer,  angry  at  the  poor  figure  he  had  cut 
on  the  platform,  was  glad  to  take  it  out  of  young  Clour- 
lay  for  the  wrong-doing  of  the  class.  Gourlay  was  their 
scapegoat.  The  lecturer  had  no  longer  over  a  hun- 
dred men  to  deal  with,  but  one  lout  only,  sullen  yet 
shrinking  in  the  room  before  him.  Instead  of  coming 
to  the  point  at  once,  he  played  with  his  victim.  It  was 
less  from  intentional  cruelty  than  from  an  instinctive 
desire  to  recover  his  lost  feeling  of  superiority.  The 
class  was  his  master,  but  here  was  one  of  them  he  could 
cowe  at  any  rate. 

"  Well  ?  "  he  asked,  bringing  his  thin  finger-tips  to- 
gether, and  flinging  one  thigh  across  the  other. 

Gourlay  shuffled  his  feet  uneasily. 
"  Yes?  "  enquired  the  other,  enjoying  his  discom- 
fiture. 

Gourlay  lowered.  "  Whatna  gate  was  this  to  gang 
on?  Why  couldn't  he  let  a  blatter  out  of  his  thin 
mouth,  and  ha'  done  wi't?  " 

"  I'm  waiting!  "  said  the  lecturer. 

The  words  "  I  apologize  "  rose  in  Gourlay,  but  refused 
to  pass  his  throat.  No,  he  wouldn't,  so  he  wouldn't! 
He  would  see  the  lecturer  far  enough,  ere  he  gave  an 
apology  before  it  was  expressly  required. 

"  Oh,  that's  the  line  you  go  on,  is  it?  "  said  the  lec- 
turer, nodding  his  head  as  if  he  had  sized  up  a  curious 

[  250  ] 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-THREE 

animal.  "  I  see,  I  see!  You  add  contumacy  to  inso- 
lence, do  you?  ....  Imphm." 

Gourlay  was  not  quite  sure  what  contumacy  meant, 
and  the  uncertainty  added  to  his  anger. 

"  There  were  others  making  a  noise  besides  me,"  he 
blurted.  "I  don't  see  why  /  should  be  blamed  for 
it  all." 

"  Oh,  you  don't  see  why  you  should  be  had  up,  indeed? 
I  think  we'll  bring  you  to  a  different  conclusion.  Yes, 
I  think  so." 

Gourlay,  being  forced  to  stand  always  on  the  one 
spot,  felt  himself  swaying  in  a  drunken  stupor.  He 
blinked  at  the  lecturer  like  an  angry  owl — the  blinking 
regard  of  a  sodden  mind,  yet  fiery  with  a  spiteful  rage. 
His  wrath  was  rising  and  falling  like  a  quick  tide.  He 
would  have  liked  one  moment  to  give  a  rein  to  the 
Gourlay  temper,  and  let  the  lecturer  have  it  hot  and 
strong — the  next,  he  was  quivering  in  a  cowardly  horror, 
of  the  desperate  attempt  he  had  so  nearly  made.  Curse 
his  tormentor!  Why  did  he  keep  him  here,  when  his 
head  was  aching  so  badly?  Another  taunt  was  enough 
to  spring  his  drunken  rage. 

"  I  wonder  what  you  think  you  came  to  College  for?  " 
said  the  lecturer.  "  I  have  been  looking  at  your  records 
in  the  class.  They're  the  worst  I  ever  saw.  And  you're 
not  content  with  that,  it  seems.  You  add  misbehaviour 
to  gross  stupidity." 

"  To  Hell  wi'  ye!  "  said  Gourlay. 

There  was  a  feeling  in  the  room  as  if  the  air  was 
stunned.     The  silence  throbbed. 

The  lecturer,  who  had  risen,  sat  down  suddenly  as  if 
going  at  the  knees,  and  went  white  about  the  gills. 

[251] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GREEN  SHUTTERS 

Some  men  would  have  swept  the  ruffian  with  a  burst  of 
generous  wrath,  a  few  might  have  pitied  in  their  anger 
— ^but  this  young  Solomon  was  thin  and  acid,  a  vindic- 
tive rat.  Unable  to  cowe  the  insolent  in  present  and 
full-blooded  rage,  he  fell  to  thinking  of  the  great  ma- 
chine he  might  set  in  motion  to  destroy  him.  As  he 
sat  there  in  silence,  his  eyes  grew  ferrety,  and  a  sleek 
revenge  peeped  from  the  corners  of  his  mouth.  ''  I'll 
show  him  what  I'll  do  to  him  for  this!  "  is  a  transla- 
tion of  his  thought.  He  was  thinking,  with  great  satis- 
faction to  himself,  of  how  the  Senatus  would  deal  with 
young  Gourlay. 

Gourlay  grew  weak  with  fear  the  moment  the  words 
escaped  him.  They  had  been  a  thunderclap  to  his  own 
ears.  He  had  been  thinking  them,  but — as  he  pleaded 
far  witliin  him  now — had  never  meant  to  utter  them; 
they  had  been  mere  spume  off  the  surge  of  cowardly 
wrath  seething  up  witliin  him,  longing  to  burst  but 
afraid.  It  was  the  taunt  of  stupidity  that  fired  his 
drunken  vanity  to  blurt  them  forth. 

The  lecturer  eyed  liim  sideways  where  he  shrank  in 
fear.  "  You  may  go,"  he  said  at  last.  "  I  will  report 
your  conduct  to  the  University." 

Gourlay  was  sitting  alone  in  his  room  when  he  heard 
that  he  had  been  expelled.  For  many  days  lie  had 
drunk  to  deaden  fear,  but  he  was  sober  now,  being  newly 
out  of  bed.  A  dreary  ray  of  sunshine  came  through  the 
window,  and  fell  on  a  wisp  of  flame,  blinking  in  the 
grate.  As  Gourlay  sat,  his  eyes  fixed  dully  on  the  faded 
ray,  a  flash  of  intuition  laid  his  character  bare  to  him. 
He  read  himself  ruthlessly.     It  was  not  by  conscious 

[  252  ] 


CHAPTER   TWENTY-THREE 

effort;  insight  was  uncanny  and  apart  from  will.  He  saw 
that  blatancy  had  joined  with  weakness,  morbidity  with 
want  of  brains;  and  that  the  results  of  these,  converging 
to  a  point,  had  produced  the  present  issue,  his  expulsion. 
His  mind  recognised  how  logical  the  issue  was,  assenting 
wearily  as  to  a  problem  proved.  Given  those  qualities, 
in  those  circumstances,  what  else  could  have  happened? 
And  such  a  weakling  as  he  knew  himself  to  be,  could 
never — he  thought — make  effort  sufficient  to  alter  his 
qualities.  A  sense  of  fatalism  came  over  him,  as  of  one 
doomed.  He  bowed  his  head,  and  let  his  arms  fall  by 
the  sides  of  his  chair,  dropping  them  like  a  spent  swim- 
mer ready  to  sink.  The  sudden  revelation  of  himself 
to  himself  had  taken  the  heart  out  of  him.  "  I'm  a 
waster!  "  he  said  aghast.  And  then,  at  the  sound  of  his 
own  voice,  a  fear  came  over  him,  a  fear  of  his  own  na- 
ture, and  he  started  to  his  feet  and  strode  feverishly,  as 
if  by  mere  locomotion,  to  escape  from  his  clinging  and 
inherent  ill.  It  M'as  as  if  he  were  trying  to  run  away 
from  himself. 

He  faced  round  at  the  mirror  on  his  mantel,  and 
looked  at  his  own  image  with  staring  and  startled  eyes, 
his  mouth  open,  the  breath  coming  hard  through  his 
nostrils.  "You're  a  gey  ill  ane,"  he  said:  "You're  a 
gey  ill  ane!  My  God,  where  have  you  landed  your- 
self! " 

He  went  out  to  escape  from  his  thoughts.  Instinc- 
tively he  turned  to  the  Howff  for  consolation. 

With  the  panic  despair  of  the  weak,  he  abandoned 
hope  of  his  character  at  its  first  collapse,  and  plunged 
into  a  wild  debauch,  to  avoid  reflecting  where  it  would 
lead  him  in  the  end.     But  he  had  a  more  definite  reason 

[  253  ] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GREEN  SHUTTERS 

for  prolonging  his  bout  in  Edinburgh.  He  was  afraid 
to  go  home  and  meet  his  father.  He  shrank,  in  vision- 
ing  fear,  before  the  dour  face,  loaded  with  scorn,  that 
would  swing  round  to  meet  him  as  he  entered  through 
the  door.  Though  he  swore  every  night  in  his  cups 
that  he  would  ''  square  up  to  the  Governor  the  morn, 
so  he  would! "  always,  when  the  cold  light  came,  fear 
of  the  interview  drove  him  to  his  cups  again.  His 
courage  zigzagged,  as  it  always  did;  one  moment 
he  towered  in  imagination,  the  next  he  grovelled  in 
fear. 

Sometimes,  when  he  was  fired  with  whiskey,  another 
element  entered  into  his  mood,  no  less  big  with  de- 
struction. It  was  all  his  father's  fault  for  sending  him 
to  Edinburgh,  and  no  matter  what  happened,  it  would 
serve  the  old  fellow  right!  He  had  a  kind  of  fierce  sat- 
isfaction in  his  own  ruin,  because  his  ruin  would  show 
them  at  home  what  a  mistake  they  had  made  in  sending 
him  to  College.  It  was  the  old  man's  tyranny,  in  forcing 
him  to  College,  that  had  brought  all  this  on  his  miser- 
able head.  Well,  he  was  damned  glad,  so  he  was,  that 
they  should  be  punished  at  home  by  their  own  foolish 
scheme — it  had  punished  liim  enough,  for  one.  And 
then  he  would  set  his  mouth  insolent  and  hard,  and 
drink  the  more  fiercely,  finding  a  consolation  in  the 
thought  that  his  tyrannical  father  would  suffer  through 
his  degradation,  too. 

At  last  he  must  go  home.  He  drifted  to  the  station 
aimlessly;  he  had  ceased  to  be  self-determined.  His 
compartment  happened  to  be  empty;  so,  free  to  behave 
as  he  liked,  he  yelled  music-hall  snatches  in  a  tuneless 
voice,  hammering  with  his  feet  on  the  wooden  floor. 

[  254] 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-THREE 

The  noise  pleased  his  sodden  mind  which  had  narrowed 
to  a  comfortable  stupor — outside  of  which  his  troubles 
seemed  to  lie,  as  if  they  belonged  not  to  him  but  to 
somebody  else.  With  the  same  sodden  interest  he  was 
staring  through  the  window,  at  one  of  the  little  sta- 
tions on  the  line,  when  a  boy,  pointing,  said,  "  Flat  white 
nose !  "  and  Gourlay  laughed  uproariously,  adding  at  the 
end:  "He's  a  clever  chield,  that;  my  nose  would  look 
flat  and  white  against  the  pane."  But  this  outbreak  of 
mirth  seemed  to  break  in  on  his  comfortable  vagueness; 
it  roused  him  by  a  kind  of  reaction  to  think  of  home, 
and  of  what  his  father  would  say.  A  minute  after  he 
had  been  laughing  so  madly,  he  was  staring  sullenly  in 
front  of  him.  Well,  it  didn't  matter;  it  was  all  the 
old  fellow's  fault,  and  he  wasn't  going  to  stand  any 
of  his  jaw.  "None  of  your  jaw,  John  Gourlay!" 
he  said,  nodding  his  head  viciously,  and  thrusting 
out  his  clenched  fist,  "  none  of  your  jaw,  d'ye 
hear?  " 

He  crept  into  Barbie  through  the  dusk.  It  had  been 
market  day  and  knots  of  people  were  still  about  the 
streets.  Gourlay  stole  softly  through  the  shadows,  and 
turned  his  coat-collar  high  about  his  ears.  He  nearly 
ran  into  two  men  who  were  talking  apart,  and  his  heart 
stopped  dead  at  their  words. 

"  No,  no,  Mr.  Gourlay,"  said  one  of  them,  "  it's  quite 
impossible.  I'm  not  unwilling  to  oblige  ye,  but  I  can- 
not take  the  risk." 

John  heard  the  mumble  of  his  father's  voice. 

"  Well,"  said  the  other  reluctantly,  "  if  ye  get  the 
baker  and  Tam  Wylie  for  security?  I'll  be  on  the 
street  for  another  half  hour." 

[  255  ] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GREEN  SHUTTERS 

"  Another  half  hour! "  thought  John  with  relief. 
He  would  not  have  to  face  his  father  the  moment  he 
went  in.  He  would  be  able  to  get  home  before  him. 
He  crept  on  through  the  gloaming  to  the  House  with 
the  Green  Shutters. 


[256] 


XXIV 

There  had  been  fine  cackling  in  Barbie,  as  Gourlay's 
men  dropped  away  from  him  one  by  one;  and  now  it  was 
worse  tlian  ever.  When  Jimmy  Bain  and  Sandy  Cross 
were  dismissed  last  winter,  "  He  canna  last  long  now," 
mused  the  bodies,  and  then  when  even  Einey  got  the 
sack,  "  Lord!  "  they  cried,  "  this  maim  be  the  end  o't!  " 
The  downfall  of  Gourlay  had  an  unholy  fascination  for 
his  neighbours.  And  that  not  merely  because  of  their 
dislike  to  the  man.  That  was  a  whet  to  their  curiosity, 
of  course,  but,  over  and  above  it,  they  seemed  to  be 
watching,  with  bated  breath,  for  the  final  collapse  of  an 
edifice  that  was  bound  to  fall.  Simple  expectation  held 
them.  It  was  a  dramatic  interest — of  suspense,  yet 
certainty — that  had  them  in  its  grip.  "  He's  hound  to 
come  down,"  said  Certainty — "  Yes,  but  iclien,  though?  " 
cried  Curiosity,  all  the  more  eager  because  of  its  instinct 
for  the  coming  crash.  And  so  they  waited  for  the  great 
catastrophe  which  they  felt  to  be  so  near.  It  was  as  if 
they  were  watching  a  tragedy  near  at  hand,  and  noting 
with  keen  interest  every  step  in  it  that  must  lead  to 
inevitable  ruin.  That  invariably  happens  when  a  family 
tragedy  is  played  out  in  the  midst  of  a  small  community. 
Each  step  in  it  is  discussed  with  a  prying  interest,  that 
is  neither  malevolent  nor  sympathetic,  but  simply  curi- 
ous. In  this  case  it  was  chiefly  malevolent,  only  be- 
cause Govirlay  had  been  such  a  brute  to  Barbie. 

[  257  ] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GREEN  SHUTTERS 

Though  there  were  thus  two  reasons  for  public  inter- 
est, the  result  was  one  and  the  same,  a  constant  tittle- 
tattling.  Particular  spite  and  a  more  general  curiosity 
brought  the  grain  merchant's  name  on  to  every  tongue. 
Not  even  in  the  gawcey  days  of  its  prosperity  had  the 
House  with  the  Green  Shutters  been  so  much  talked  of. 

"  Pride  iinll  have  a  downcome,"  said  some,  with  a  gleg 
look  and  a  smack  of  the  lip,  trying  to  veil  their 
personal  malevolence  in  a  connnon  proverb.  "  He's 
simply  in  debt  in  every  corner,"  goldered  the  keener 
spirits;  "  he  never  had  a  brain  for  business.  He's  had 
money  for  stuff  he's  unable  to  deliver!  Not  a  day  gangs 
by  but  the  big  blue  envelopes  are  coming.  How  do  I 
ken?  say  ye!  How  do  I  ken,  indeed?  Oh-ooh,  I  ken 
perfectly.  Perfectly!  It  was  Postie  himsell  that  telled 
me!  " 

Yet  all  this  was  merely  guesswork.  For  Gourlay  had 
hitherto  gone  away  from  Barbie  for  his  monies  and  ac- 
commodations, so  that  the  bodies  could  only  surmise; 
they  had  nothing  definite  to  go  on.  And  through  it  all, 
the  gurly  old  fellow  kept  a  brave  front  to  the  world. 
He  was  thinking  of  retiring,  he  said,  and  gradually 
drawing  in  his  business.  This  offhand  and  lordly,  to 
hide  the  patent  diminution  of  his  trade. 

"Hi-hi!"  said  the  old  Provost,  with  a  cruel  laugh, 
when  he  heard  of  Gourlay's  remark,  "  drawing  in  his 
business,  aye!  It's  like  Lang  Jean  Lingleton's  waist, 
I'm  thinking.     It's  thin-eneugh  drawn  a'readys!  " 

On  the  morning  of  the  last  market  day  he  was  ever 
to  see  in  Barbie,  old  Gourlay  was  standing  at  the  green 
gate,  when  the  postman  came  up  with  a  smirk,  and  put 
a  letter  in  his  hand.     He  betrayed  a  wish  to  hover  in 

[258] 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-FOUR 

gossip,  while  Gourlay  opened  his  letter,  but  "  Less  lip!  " 
said  surly  John,  and  the  fellow  went  away. 

Ere  he  had  reached  the  corner,  a  gowl  of  anger  and 
grief  struck  his  ear,  and  he  wheeled  eagerly. 

Gourlay  was  standing  with  open  mouth  and  out- 
stretched arm,  staring  at  the  letter  in  his  clenched  fist 
with  a  look  of  horror,  as  if  it  had  stung  him. 

"My  God!"  he  cried,  "had  /  not  enough  to 
thole?" 

"Aha!  "  thought  Postie,  "  yon  letter  Wilson  got  this 
morning  was  correct,  then!  His  son  had  sent  the  true 
story.  That  letter  o'  Gourlay's  had  the  Edinburgh  post- 
mark— somebody  has  sent  him  word  about  his  son. — 
Lord!     What  a  tit-bit  for  my  rounds." 

Mrs.  Gourlay,  who  was  washing  dishes,  looked  up  to 
see  her  husband  standing  in  the  kitchen  door.  His  face 
frightened  her.  She  had  often  seen  the  blaze  in  his 
eye,  and  often  the  dark  scowl,  but  never  this  bloodless 
pallor  in  his  cheek.     Yet  his  eyes  were  flaming. 

"  Aye,  aye,"  he  birred,  "  a  fine  job  you  have  made  of 
him! " 

"Oh,  what  is  it?"  she  quavered,  and  the  dish  she 
was  wiping  clashed  on  the  floor. 

"  That's  it!  "  said  he,  "  that's  it!  Breck  the  dishes 
next;  breck  the  dishes!  Everything  seems  gaun  to 
smash.  If  ye  keep  on  lang  eneugh,  ye'll  put  a  bonny 
end  tiirt  or  ye're  bye  wi't — the  lot  o'  ye." 

The  taunt  passed  in  the  anxiety  that  stormed  her. 

"  Tell  me,  see!  "  she  cried,  imperious  in  stress  of  ap- 
peal. "  Oil,  what  is  it,  John?  "  She  stretched  out  her 
thin,  red  hands,  and  clasped  them  tightly  before  her. 
"Is  it  from  Embro?     Is  there  ainything  the  matter 

[  259  ] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GREEN  SHUTTERS 

with   my  boy?     Is   there   ainything   the   matter  with 
my  boy?  " 

The  hard  eye  surveyed  her  a  while  in  grim  contempt 
of  her  weakness.  She  was  a  fluttering  thing  in  his  grip. 
"  Every  thing's  the  matter  with  your  boy,"  he 
sneered  slowly,  "  every  thing's  the  matter  with  your  boy. 
— And  it's  your  fault,  too,  damn  you,  for  you  always 
spoiled  him!  " 

With  sudden  wrath  he  strode  over  to  the  famous 
range  and  threw  the  letter  within  the  great  fender. 

"  What  is  it?  "  he  cried,  wheeling  round  on  his  wife. 
"  The  son  you  were  so  wild  about  sending  to  College 
has  been  flung  in  disgrace  from  its  door!  That's  what 
it  is!  "     He  swept  from  the  house  like  a  madman. 

Mrs.  Gourlay  sank  into  her  old  nursing  chair  and 
wailed,  "  Oh,  my  wean,  my  wean;  my  dear;  my  poor 
dear!  "  She  drew  the  letter  from  the  ashes,  but  could 
not  read  it  for  her  tears.  The  words  "  drunkenness  " 
and  "  expulsion  "  swam  before  her  eyes.  The  manner 
of  his  disgrace  she  did  not  care  to  hear;  she  only  knew 
her  first-born  was  in  sorrow. 

"  Oh,  my  son,  my  son,"  she  cried;  "  my  laddie;  my 
wee  laddie!  "  She  was  thinking  of  the  time  when  he 
trotted  at  her  petticoat. 

It  was  market  day,  and  Gourlay  must  face  the  town. 
There  was  interest  due  on  a  mortgage  which  he  could 
not  pay;  he  must  swallow  his  pride  and  try  to  borrow  it 
in  Barbie.  He  thought  of  trying  Johnny  Coe,  for 
Johnny  was  of  yielding  nature,  and  had  never  been 
unfriendly. 

He  turned,  twenty  yards  from  his  gate,  and  looked 
at  the  House  with  the  Green  Shutters.     He  had  often 

[  260] 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-FOUR 

turned  to  look  back  with  pride  at  the  gawcey  building 
on  its  terrace;  but  never  as  he  looked  to-day.  All  that 
his  life  meant,  was  bound  up  in  that  house,  it  had  been 
the  pride  of  the  Gourlays;  now  it  was  no  longer  his,  and 
the  Gourlays'  pride  was  in  the  dust — their  name  a  by- 
word. As  Gourlay  looked,  a  robin  was  perched  on  the 
quiet  rooftree,  its  breast  vivid  in  the  sun.  One  of  his 
metaphors  flashed  at  the  sight.  "  Shame  is  sitting 
there,  too,"  he  muttered — and  added  with  a  proud  angry 
snarl,  "  on  the  riggin'  o'  my  hoose!  " 

He  had  a  triple  wratli  to  his  son.  He  had  not  only 
ruined  his  own  life,  he  had  destroyed  his  father's  hope 
that  by  entering  the  ministry  he  might  restore  the  Gour- 
lay reputation.  Above  all  he  had  disgraced  the  House 
witli  the  Green  Shutters.  That  was  the  crown  of  his 
offending.  Gourlay  felt  for  the  house  of  his  pride 
even  more  than  for  himself — rather  tlie  liouse  was  liim- 
self ;  there  was  no  division  between  them.  He  had  built 
it  bluff  to  represent  him  to  the  world.  It  was  his  char- 
acter in  stone  and  lime.  He  clung  to  it,  as  the  dull, 
fierce  mind,  unable  to  live  in  thought,  clings  to  a  ma- 
terial source  of  pride.  And  John  had  disgraced  it. 
Even  if  fortune  took  a  turn  for  the  better.  Green  Sh\it- 
ters  would  be  laughed  at  the  country  over,  as  the  liome 
of  a  prodigal. 

As  he  went  by  the  Cross,  Wilson  (Provost  this  long 
wJiile)  broke  off  a  conversation  with  Templandmuir, 
to  yell  "It's  gra-and  weather,  Mr.  Gourlay!"  The 
men  had  not  spoken  for  years,.  So  to  shout  at  poor 
Gourlay  in  his  black  hour",  from  the  pinnacle  of  civic 
greatness,  was  a  fine  stroke;  it  was  gloating,  it  was  rub- 
bing in  the  contrast.     The  words  were  innocent,  l)ut 

[  361  ] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GREEN  SHUTTERS 

that  was  nothing;  whatever  the  remark,  for  a  declared 
enemy  to  address  Gourlay  in  his  shame,  was  an  insult: 
that  was  why  Wilson  addressed  him.  There  was  some- 
thing in  the  very  loudness  of  his  tones  that  cried  plainly: 
"Aha,  Gourlay!  Your  son  has  disgraced  you,  my  man!  " 
Gourlay  glowered  at  the  animal  and  plodded  dourly. 
Ere  he  had  gone  ten  yards  a  coarse  laugh  came  bellow- 
ing behind  him.  They  saw  the  colour  surge  up  the 
back  of  his  neck,  to  the  roots  of  his  hair. 

He  stopped.  Was  his  son's  disgrace  known  in  Barbie 
already?  He  had  hoped  to  get  through  the  market  day 
without  anybody  knowing.  But  Wilson  had  a"  son  in 
Edinburgh;  he  had  written,  it  was  like.  The  salutation, 
therefore,  and  the  laugh,  had  both  been  uttered  in  de- 
rision. He  wheeled,  his  face  black  with  the  passionate 
blood.  His  mouth  yawed  with  anger.  His  voice  had 
a  moan  of  intensity. 

"  What  are  'ee  laughing  at?  "  he  said,  with  a  master- 
ing quietness  ....  "Eh?  ...  .  Just  tell  me,  please, 
what  you're  laughing  at." 

He  was  crouching  for  the  grip,  his  hands  out  like  a 
gorilla's.  The  quiet  voice,  from  the  yawing  mouth, 
beneath  the  steady  flaming  eyes,  was  deadly.  There  is 
something  inhuman  in  a  rage  so  still. 

"  Eh?  "  he  said  slowly,  and  the  moan  seemed  to  come 
from  the  midst  of  a  vast  intensity  rather  than  a  human 
being.     It  was  the  question  that  must  grind  an  answer. 

Wilson  was  wishing  to  all  his  gods  that  he  had  not  in- 
sulted this  awful  man.  He  remembered  what  had  hap- 
pened to  Gibson.  This,  he  had  heard,  was  the  very 
voice  with  which  Gourlay  moaned :  "  Take  your  hand 
off  my  shouther!  "  ere  he  hurled  Gibson  through  tlie 

[3G3] 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-FOUR 

window  of  the  Red  Lion.  Barbie  might  soon  want  a 
new  Provost,  if  he  ran  in  now. 

But  there  is  always  one  way  of  evading  punishment 
for  a  veiled  insult,  and  of  adding  to  its  sting  by  your 
evasion.  Repudiate  the  remotest  thought  of  the  pro- 
tester. Thus  you  enjoy  your  previous  gibe,  with  the 
additional  pleasure  of  making  your  victim  seem  a  fool, 
for  thinking  you  referred  to  him.  You  not  only  insult 
him  on  the  first  count,  but  send  him  off  with  an  addi- 
tional hint,  that  he  isn't  worth  your  notice.  Wilson  was 
an  adept  in  the  art. 

"  Man!  "  he  lied  blandly — but  his  voice  was  quivering 
— "  Ma-a-an,  I  wasn't  so  much  as  giving  ye  a  tlioat! 
It's  verra  strange  if  I  cannot  pass  a  joke  with  my  o-old 
friend,  Templandmuir,  without  you  calling  me  to  book. 
It's  a  free  country,  I  shuppose!  Ye  weren't  in  my  mind 
at  a-all.  I  have  more  important  matters  to  think  of," 
he  ventured  to  add,  seeing  he  had  baffled  Gourlay. 

For  Gourlay  was  baffled.  For  a  directer  insult,  an 
offensive  gesture,  one  fierce  word,  he  would  have  ham- 
mered the  road  with  the  Provost.  But  he  was  helpless 
before  the  bland  quivering  lie.  Maybe  they  werena  re- 
ferring to  him,  maybe  they  knew  nothing  of  John  in 
Edinburgh,  maybe  he  had  been  foolishly  suspeecious. 
A  subtle  yet  baffling  check  was  put  upon  his  anger. 
Madman  as  he  was  in  wrath,  he  never  struck  without 
direct  provocation;  there  was  none  in  this  pulpy  gentle- 
ness. And  he  was  too  dull  of  wit,  to  get  round  the  com- 
mon ruse  and  find  a  means  of  getting  at  them. 

He  let  loose  a  great  breath  through  his  nostrils,  as 
if  releasing  a  deadly  force  which  he  had  pent  within 
him,  ready  should  he  need  to  spring.    His  mouth  opened 

[263] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GREEN  SHUTTERS 

again,  and  he  gaped  at  them  with  a  great,  round,  unsee- 
ing stare.     Then  he  swung  on  his  heel. 

But  wrath  clung  round  him  like  a  garment.  His  an- 
ger fed  on  its  uncertainties.  For  that  is  the  beauty  of  the 
Wilson  method  of  insult;  you  leave  the  poison  in  your 
victim's  blood,  and  he  torments  himself.  "  Was  Wilson 
referring  to  me,  after  all?  "  he  pondered  slowly;  and  his 
body  surged  at  the  thought.  "  If  he  was,  I  have  let 
him  get  away  unkilled  " — and  he  clutched  tlie  hands 
whence  Wilson  had  escaped.  Suddenly  a  flashing 
thought  stopped  him  dead  in  the  middle  of  his  walk, 
staring  hornily  before  him.  He  had  seen  the  point  at 
last,  that  a  quicker  man  would  have  seized  on  at  the  first. 
Why  had  Wilson  thrust  his  damned  voice  on  him  on  this 
particular  morning  of  all  days  in  the  year,  if  he  was  not 
gloating  over  some  news  which  he  had  just  heard  about 
the  Gourlays?  It  was  as  plain  as  daylight;  his  son  had 
sent  word  from  Edinburgh.  That  was  why  he  brayed 
and  ho-ho-ho'ed  when  Gourlay  went  by.  Gourlay  felt 
a  great  flutter  of  pulses  against  his  collar;  there  was  a 
pain  in  his  throat,  an  ache  of  madness  in  his  breast. 
He  turned  once  more.  But  Wilson  and  the  Templar 
had  witlulrawn  discreetly  to  the  Black  Bull;  the  street 
wasna  canny.  Gourlay  resumed  his  way,  his  being  a 
dumb  gowl  of  rage.  His  angry  thought  swept  to  John. 
Each  insult,  and  fancied  insult,  he  endured  that  day,  was 
another  item  in  the  long  account  of  vengeance  with  his 
son.  It  was  John  who  had  brought  all  this  flaming 
round  his  ears — John  whose  colleging  he  had  lippened 
to  so  muckle.  The  staff  on  which  lie  leaned  had 
pierced  him.  By  tlie  eternal  heavens  he  would  tramp 
it  into  atoms.     His  legs  felt  John  beneatli  them. 

[  264  J 


CHAPTEE   TWENTY-FOUR 

As  the  market  grew  busy,  Gourlay  was  the  aim  of 
innumerable  eyes.  He  would  turn  his  head  to  find  him- 
self the  object  of  a  queer  considering  look — then  the 
eyes  of  the  starer  would  flutter  abashed,  as  though  de- 
tected spying  the  forbidden.  The  most  innocent  look 
at  him  was  poison.  "Do  they  know?"  was  his  con- 
stant thought:  "Have  they  heard  the  news?  What's 
Loranogie  looking  at  me  like  that  for?  " 

Not  a  man  ventured  to  address  him  about  John — he 
had  cowed  them  too  long.  One  man,  however,  shewed 
a  wish  to  try.  A  pretended  sympathy,  from  behind  the 
veil  of  which  you  probe  a  man's  anguish  at  your  ease, 
is  a  favourite  weapon  of  human  beasts  anxious  to  wound. 
The  Deacon  longed  to  try  it  on  Gourlay.  But  his  cour- 
age failed  him.  It  was  the  only  time  he  was  ever 
worsted  in  malignity.  Never  a  man  went  forth,  bowed 
down  with  a  recent  shame,  wounded  and  wincing  from 
the  public  gaze,  but  that  old  rogue  hirpled  up  to  him, 
and  lisped  with  false  smoothness:  "  Thirce  me,  neebour, 
I'm  thorry  for  ye!  Thith  ith  a  terrible  affair!  It'th  on 
everybody'tli  tongue.  But  ye  have  my  thympathy,  nee- 
bour— ye  have  tha-at.  My  warmetht  thympathy  " — 
and,  all  the  while,  the  shifty  eyes  above  the  lying  mouth 
would  peer  and  probe,  to  see  if  the  soul  within  the  other 
was  writhing  at  his  words. 

Now,  though  everybody  was  spying  at  Gourla}^  in  the 
market,  all  were  giving  him  a  wide  berth ;  for  they  knew 
that  he  was  dangerous.  He  was  no  longer  the  man 
whom  they  had  baited  on  the  way  to  Skeighan;  then  he 
had  some  control,  now  three  years'  calamities  had 
fretted  his  temper  to  a  raw  wound.  To  flick  it  was 
perilous.     Great  was  the  surprise  of  the  starers,  there- 

[  265  ] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GEEEN  SHUTTERS 

fore,  when  the  idle  old  Deacon  was  seen  to  detach  him- 
self, and  hail  the  grain  merchant.  Gourlay  wheeled,  and 
waited  with  a  levelled  eye.  All  were  agog  at  the  sight — 
something  would  be  sure  to  come  o'  this — here  would  be 
an  encounter  worth  the  speaking  o'.  But  the  Deacon, 
having  toddled  forward  a  bittock  on  his  thin  shanks, 
stopped  half-roads,  took  snuff,  trumpeted  into  his  big 
red  handkerchief,  and  then,  feebly  waving,  "  I'll  thee 
ye  again,  Dyohn!  "  clean  turned  tail  and  toddled  back 
to  his  cronies. 

A  roar  went  up  at  his  expense. 

"  God!  "  said  Tam  Wylie,  "  did  ye  see  yon?  Gourlay 
stopped  him  wi'  a  glower." 

But  the  laugh  was  maddening  to  Gourlay.  Its  readi- 
ness, its  volume,  shewed  him  that  scores  of  folk  had 
him  in  their  minds,  were  watching  him,  considering  his 
position,  cognisant  of  where  he  stood.  "  They  ken," 
he  thought.  "  They  were  a'  waiting  to  see  what  would 
happen.  They  wanted  to  watch  how  Gourlay  tholed  the 
mention  o'  his  son's  disgrace.  I'm  a  kind  o'  show  to 
them." 

Johnny  Coe,  idle  and  well-to-pass,  though  he  had 
no  business  of  his  own  to  attend  to,  was  always  pres- 
ent where  business  men  assembled.  It  was  a  gra-and 
way  of  getting  news.  To-day,  however,  Gourlay  could 
not  find  him.  He  went  into  the  cattle  mart  to  see 
if  he  was  there.  For  two  years  now,  Barbie  had 
a  market  for  cattle,  on  the  first  Tuesday  of  the 
month. 

The  auctioneer,  a  jovial  dog,  was  in  the  middle  of  his 
roaring  game.  A  big,  red  bullock,  the  coat  of  which 
made  a  rich  colour  in  the  ring,  came  bounding  in,  scared 

[266  ] 


CHAPTER   TWENTY-FOUR 

at  its  surroundings — staring  one  moment  and  the  next 
careering. 

"  There's  meat  for  you,"  said  he  of  the  hammer;  "  see 
how  it  runs!  How  much  am  I  offered  for  this  fine 
bullock?  "  He  eing-songed,  always  saying  "  this  fine 
bullock  "  in  exactly  the  same  tone  of  voice.  "  Thirteen 
pounds  for  this  fine  bullock,  thirteen-five;  thirteen-ten; 
thirteen-ten  for  this  fine  bullock;  thirteen-ten;  any 
further  bids  on  thirteen-ten? — why,  it's  worth  that  for 
the  colour  o't;  thank  ye,  sir — thirteen-fifteen;  fourteen 
pounds;  fourteen  pounds  for  this  fine  bullock;  see  how 
the  stot  stots*  about  the  ring;  that  joke  should  raise  him 
another  half  sovereign;  ah,  I  knew  it  would — fourteen- 
five;  fourteen-five  for  this  fine  bullock;  fourteen-ten;  no 
more  than  fourteen-ten  for  this  fine  bullock;  going  at 
fourteen-ten;  gone — Irrendavie." 

Now  that  he  was  in  the  circle,  however,  the  mad,  big, 
handsome  beast  refused  to  go  out  again.  When  the 
cattlemen  would  drive  him  to  the  yard,  he  snorted  and 
galloped  round,  till  he  had  to  be  driven  from  the  ring 
with  blows.  When  at  last  he  bounded  through  the 
door,  he  flung  up  his  heels  with  a  bellow,  and  sent  the 
sand  of  his  arena  showering  on  the  people  round. 

"  I  seh!  "  roared  Brodie  in  his  coarsest  voice,  from  the 
side  of  the  ring  opposite  to  Gourlay.  "  I  seh,  owc- 
tioner!  That  maun  be  a  College-bred  stot,  from  the 
way  he  behaves.  He  flung  dirt  at  his  masters  and  had 
to  be  expelled." 

"  Put  Brodie  in  the  ring  and  rowp  him!  "  cried  Irren- 
davie.    "  He  roars  like  a  bill  at  ony  rate." 

There  was  a  laugh  at  Brodie,  true;  but  it  was  at  Gour- 
*  Stot,  a  bullock ;  to  stot,  to  bound. 
[267] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GREEN  SHUTTERS 

lay  that  a  hundred  big  red  faces  turned  to  look.  He 
did  not  look  at  them,  though.  He  sent  his  eyes  across 
the  ring  at  Brodie. 

"  Lord!  "  said  Irrendavie,  "  it's  weel  for  Brodie  that 
the  ring's  acqueesh  them!  Gourlay'll  murder  some- 
body yet.  Red  hell  lap  out  o'  his  e'en  when  he  looked 
at  Brodie." 

Gourlay's  suspicion  that  his  son's  disgrace  was  a  mat- 
ter of  common  knowledge,  had  now  become  a  certainty. 
Brodie's  taunt  shewed  that  everybody  knew  it.  He 
walked  out  of  the  building  very  quietly,  pale  but  reso- 
lute; no  meanness  in  his  carriage,  no  cowering.  He 
was  an  arresting  figure  of  a  man  as  he  stood  for  a  mo- 
ment in  the  door,  and  looked  round  for  the  man  whom 
he  was  seeking.  "  Weel,  weel,"  he  was  thinking,  "  I 
maun  thole,  I  suppose.  They  were  under  my  feet  for 
many  a  day,  and  they're  taking  their  advantage  now," 

But  though  he  could  thole,  his  anger  against  John 
was  none  the  less.  It  was  because  they  had  been  under 
his  feet  for  many  a  day  that  John's  conduct  was  the 
more  heinous.  It  was  his  son's  conduct  that  gave  Gour- 
lay's enemies  their  first  opportunity  against  him,  that 
enabled  them  to  turn  the  tables.  They  might  sneer  at 
his  trollop  of  a  wife,  they  might  sneer  at  his  want  of 
mere  cleverness;  still  he  held  his  head  high  amongst 
them.  They  might  suspect  his  poverty;  but  so  far,  for 
anything  they  knew,  he  might  have  thousands  behind 
him.  He  owed  not  a  man  in  Barbie.  The  appoint- 
ments of  Green  Shutters  were  as  brave  as  ever.  The 
selling  of  his  horses,  the  dismissal  of  his  men,  might 
mean  the  completion  of  a  fortune,  not  its  loss.  Hither- 
to, then,  he  was  invulnerable — so  he  reasoned.     It  was 

[368] 


CHAPTER   TWENTY-FOUR 

his  son's  disgrace  that  gave  the  men  he  had  trodden 
under  foot  the  first  weapon  they  could  use  against  him. 
That  was  why  it  was  more  damnable  in  Gourlay's  eyes 
than  the  conduct  of  all  the  prodigals  that  ever  lived. 
It  had  enabled  his  foes  to  get  their  knife  into  him  at 
last — and  they  were  turning  the  dagger  in  the  wound. 
All  owing  to  the  boy  on  whom  he  had  staked  such  hopes 
of  keeping  up  the  Gourlay  name!  His  account  with 
John  was  lengthening  steadily. 

Coe  was  nowhere  to  be  seen.  At  last  Gourlay  made  up 
his  mind  to  go  out  and  make  enquiries  at  his  house,  out 
the  Fleckie  Road.  It  was  a  quiet  big  house,  standing 
by  itself,  and  Gourlay  was  glad  there  was  nobody  to 
see  him. 

It  was  Miss  Coe  herself  who  answered  his  knock  at  the 
door. 

She  was  a  gathered  old  shrew,  with  fifty  times  the 
spunk  of  Johnny.  On  her  thin  wrists  and  long  hands 
there  was  always  a  pair  of  bright  red  mittens,  only  her 
finger-tips  showing.  Her  far-sunken  and  toothless 
mouth  was  always  working,  with  a  sucking  motion  of 
the  lips;  and  her  round  little  knob  of  a  sticking  out 
chin  munched  up  and  down  when  she  spoke,  a  long  stiff 
whitish  hair  slanting  out  its  middle.  However  much 
you  wished  to  avoid  doing  so,  you  could  not  keep  your 
eyes  from  staring  at  that  solitary  hair  while  she  was 
addressing  you.  It  worked  up  and  down  so,  keeping 
time  to  every  word  she  spoke. 

"  Is  your  brother  in?  "  said  Gourlay.  He  was  too  near 
reality  in  this  sad  pass  of  his  to  think  of  "  mistering." 
"  Is  your  brother  in?  "  said  he. 

"  iSTo-a!  "  she  shrilled — for  ]\Iiss  Coe  answered  ques- 

[  269  ] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GREEN  SHUTTERS 

tions  with  an  old-maidish  scream,  as  if  the  news  she  was 
giving  must  be  a  great  surprise,  both  to  you  and  her. 
"  No-a! "  she  skirled;  "  he's  no-a  in-a!  Was  it  ainy- 
thing  particular?  " 

"  No,"  said  Gourlay  heavily;  "  I — I  just  wanted  to  see 
him,"  and  he  trudged  away. 

Miss  Coe  looked  after  him  for  a  moment  ere  she  closed 
the  door.  "  He's  wanting  to  barrow  money,"  she  cried; 
"  I'm  nearly  sure  o't!  I  maun  caution  Johnny  when  he 
comes  back  frae  Fleckie,  afore  he  gangs  east  the  toon. 
Gourlay  could  get  him  to  do  ocht!  He  always  admired 
the  brute — I'm  sure  I  kenna  why.  Because  he's  siccan 
a  silly  body  himsell,  I  suppose!  " 

It  was  after  dark  when  Gourlay  met  Coe  on  the  street. 
He  drew  him  aside  in  the  shadows,  and  asked  for  a  loan 
of  eighty  pounds. 

Johnny  stammered  a  refusal.  "  Hauf  the  bawbees  is 
mine,"  his  sister  had  skirled,  "  and  I  daur  ye  to  do  ony 
siccan  thing,  John  Coe!  " 

"  It's  only  for  a  time,"  pleaded  Gourlay — "  and,  by 
God,"  he  flashed,  "  it's  hell  in  my  throat  to  ask  from  any 
man." 

"  No,  no,  Mr.  Gourlay,"  said  Johnny,  "  it's  quite  im- 
possible. I've  always  looked  up  to  ye,  and  I'm  not 
unwilling  to  oblige  ye,  but  I  cannot  take  the  risk." 

"  Risk! "  said  Gourlav,  and  stared  at  the  darkness. 
By  hook  or  by  crook  he  must  raise  the  money  to  save  the 
House  with  the  Green  Shutters.  It  was  no  use  trying 
the  bank;  he  had  a  letter  from  the  banker  in  his  desk, 
to  tell  him  that  his  account  was  overdrawn.  And  yet 
if  the  interest  were  not  paid  at  once,  the  lawyers  in 
Glasgow  would  foreclose,  and  the  Gourlays  would  be 

[270] 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-FOUR 

flung  upon  the  street.  His  proud  soul  must  eat  dirt, 
if  need  be,  for  the  sake  of  eighty  pounds. 

"  If  I  get  the  baker,  or  Tarn  Wylie,  to  stand  security," 
he  asked,  "  would  ye  not  oblige  me  ?  I  think  they  would 
do  it.     I  have  always  felt  they  respected  me." 

"  Well,"  said  Johnny  slowly,  fearing  his  sister's  anger, 
"  if  ye  get  the  baker  and  Tam  Wylie  for  security?  I'll 
be  on  the  street  for  another  half  hour. 

A  figure,  muffled  in  a  great  coat,  was  seen  stealing  off 
through  the  shadows. 

"  God's  curse  on  whoever  that  is! "  snarled  Gourlay, 
"  creeping  up  to  listen  to  our  talk." 

"  I  don't  think  so,"  said  Johnny;  "  it  seemed  a  young 
chap  trying  to  hide  himself." 

Gourlay  failed  to  get  his  securities.  The  baker, 
though  a  poor  man,  would  have  stood  for  him,  if  Tam 
Wylie  would  have  joined;  but  Tam  would  not  budge. 
He  was  as  clean  as  gray  granite,  and  as  hard. 

So  Gourlay  trudged  home  through  the  darkness, 
beaten  at  last,  mad  with  shame  and  anger  and  fore- 
boding. 

The  first  thing  he  saw  on  entering  the  kitchen  was 
his  son — sitting  muffled  in  his  coat  by  the  great  fender. 


[271] 


XXV 

Janet  and  her  mother  saw  a  quiver  run  through 
Gourlay,  as  he  stood  and  glowered  from  the  threshold. 
He  seemed  of  monstrous  bulk  and  significance,  filling 
the  doorway  in  his  silence. 

The  quiver  that  went  through  him  was  a  sign  of  his 
contending  angers,  his  will  struggling  with  the  tumult 
of  wrath  that  threatened  to  spoil  his  revenge.  To  fell 
that  huddled  oaf  with  a  blow  would  be  a  poor  return  for 
all  he  had  endured  because  of  him.  He  meant  to  sweat 
punishment  out  of  him  drop  by  drop,  with  slow  and 
vicious  enjoyment.  But  the  sudden  sight  of  that  living 
disgrace  to  the  Gourlays  woke  a  wild  desire  to  leap  on 
him  at  once,  and  glut  his  rage,  a  madness  which  only  a 
will  like  his  could  control.  He  quivered  with  the  effort 
to  keep  it  in. 

To  bring  a  beaten  and  degraded  look  into  a  man's 
face,  rend  manhood  out  of  him  in  fear,  is  a  sight  that 
makes  decent  men  wince  in  pain;  for  it  is  an  outrage 
on  the  decency  of  life,  an  offence  to  natural  religion,  a 
violation  of  the  human  sanctities.  Yet  Gourlay  had 
done  it  once  and  again.  I  saw  him  "  down  "  a  man  at 
the  Cross  once,  a  big  man  with  a  viking  beard,  dark 
brown,  from  which  you  would  have  looked  for  manli- 
ness. Gourlay,  with  stabbing  eyes,  threatened,  and 
birred,  and  "  downed  "  him,  till  he  crept  away  with  a 
face  like  chalk,  and  a  hunted,  furtive  eye.     Curiously 

[272] 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-FIVE 

it  was  his  manly  beard  that  made  the  look  such  a  pain, 
for  its  contrasting  colour  shewed  the  white  face  of  the 
coward — and  a  coward  had  no  right  to  such  a  beard.  A 
grim  and  cruel  smile  went  after  him  as  he  slunk  away. 
"  Ha ! "  barked  Gourlay,  in  lordly  and  pursuing  scorn, 
and  the  fellow  leapt  where  he  walked,  as  the  cry  went 
through  him.  To  break  a  man's  spirit  so,  take  that 
from  him  which  he  will  never  recover  while  he  lives, 
send  him  slinking  away  animo  castrato — for  that  is  what 
it  comes  to — is  a  sinister  outrage  of  the  world.  It  is  as 
bad  as  the  rape  of  a  woman,  and  ranks  Avith  the  sin 
against  the  Holy  Ghost — derives  from  it,  indeed.  Yet 
it  was  this  outrage  that  Gourlay  meant  to  work  upon  his 
son.  He  would  work  him  down  and  down,  this  son  of 
his,  till  he  was  less  than  a  man,  a  frightened,  furtive 
animal.  Then,  perhaps,  he  would  give  a  loose  to  his 
other  rage,  unbuckle  his  belt,  and  thrash  the  grown  man 
like  a  wriggling  urchin  on  the  floor. 

As  he  stood  glowering  from  the  door  Mrs.  Gourlay 
rose,  with  an  appealing  cry  of  "  John !  " — but  Gourlay 
put  his  eye  on  her,  and  she  sank  into  her  chair,  staring 
up  at  him  in  terror.  The  strings  of  the  tawdry  cap  she 
wore  seemed  to  choke  her,  and  she  unfastened  them  with 
nervous  fingers,  fumbling  long  beneath  her  lifted  chin 
to  get  them  loose.  She  did  not  remove  the  cap,  but  let 
the  strings  dangle  by  her  Jaw.  The  silly  bits  of  cloth 
waggling  and  quivering,  as  she  turned  her  head  repeat- 
edly from  son  to  husband  and  from  husband  to  son, 
added  to  her  air  of  helplessness  and  inefficiency.  Once 
she  whispered  with  ghastly  intensity,  "  God  have 
mercy ! " 

For  a  length  of  time  there  was  a  loaded  silence. 

[273] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GKEEN  SHUTTEKS 

Gouiiay  went  up  to  the  hearth,  and  looked  down  on 
his  son  from  near  at  hand.  John  shrank  down  in  his 
great-coat.  A  reek  of  alcohol  rose  from  around  him. 
Janet  whimpered. 

But  when  Gourlay  spoke,  it  was  with  deadly  quietude. 
The  moan  was  in  his  voice.  So  great  was  his  controlled 
wrath  that  he  drew  in  great  shivering  breastfuls  of  air 
between  the  words,  as  if  for  strength  to  utter  them;  and 
they  quavered  forth  on  it  again.  He  seemed  weakened 
by  his  own  rage. 

"Aye  man!"  he  breathed  ....  "  Ye've  won  hame, 
I  observe!  ....  Dee-ee-ar  me!  ....  Im-phm! " 

The  contrast  between  the  lowness  of  his  voice  and  his 
steady  breathing  anger  that  possessed  the  air  (they  felt 
it  coming  as  on  waves)  was  demoniac,  appalling. 

John  could  not  speak;  he  was  paralysed  by  fear.  To 
have  this  vast  hostile  force  touch  him,  yet  be  still, 
struck  him  dumb.  Why  did  his  father  not  break  out 
on  him  at  once?  What  did  he  mean?  What  was  he 
going  to  do?  The  jamb  of  the  fireplace  cut  his  right 
shoulder  as  he  cowered  into  it,  to  get  away  as  far  as 
he  could. 

"  I'm  saying  ....  ye've  won  hame! "  quivered 
Gourlay  in  a  deadly  slowness,  and  his  eyes  never  left 
his  son. 

And  still  the  son  made  no  reply.  In  the  silence,  the 
ticking  of  the  big  clock  seemed  to  fill  their  world.  They 
were  conscious  of  nothing  else.     It  smote  the  ear, 

"Aye,"  John  gulped  at  last  from  a  throat  that  felt 
closing.  The  answer  seemed  dragged  out  of  him  by  the 
insistent  silence. 

"  Just  so-a!  "  breathed  his  father,  and  his  eyes  opened 

[374] 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-FIVE 

in  wide  flame.     He  heaved  with  the  great  breath  he 
drew  .  .  .  .  "  Im-phm!  "  he  drawled. 

He  went  through  to  the  scullery  at  the  back  of  the 
kitchen  to  wash  his  hands.  Through  the  open  door 
Janet  and  her  mother — looking  at  each  other  with 
affrighted  eyes — could  hear  him  sneering  at  inter- 
vals, "Aye  man!"  ....  "Just  that,  now!"  .  .  .  . 
"  Im-phm!  "  And  again,  "Aye,  aye!  ....  Dee-ee-ar 
me!  "  in  grim,  falsetto  irony. 

When  he  came  back  to  the  kitchen,  he  turned  to 
Janet,  and  left  his  son  in  a  suspended  agony. 

"Aye  woman,  Jenny;  ye're  there! "  he  said,  and 
nipped  her  ear  as  he  passed  over  to  his  chair.  "  Were 
ye  in  Skeighan  the  day?  " 

"Aye,  faither,"  she  answered. 

"And  what  did  the  Skeighan  doctor  say?  " 

She  raised  her  large  pale  eyes  to  his  with  a  strange 
look.     Then  her  head  sank  low  on  her  breast. 

"  Nothing!  "  she  said  at  last. 

"  Nothing!  "  said  he.  "  Nothing  for  nothing,  then. 
I  hope  you  didna  pay  him?  " 

"  No,  faither,"  she  answered.  "  I  hadna  the  baw- 
bees." 

"  When  did  ye  get  back?  "  he  asked. 

"  Just  after — just  after — "  her  eyes  flickered  over  to 
John,  as  if  she  were  afraid  of  mentioning  his  name. 

"  Oh,  just  after  this  gentleman !  But  there's  noath- 
ing  strange  in  tha-at;  you  were  always  after  him!  You 
were  born  after  him;  and  considered  after  him;  he  aye 
had  the  best  o't! — I  howp  you  are  in  good  health?  " 
he  sneered,  turning  to  his  son.  "  It  would  never  do  for 
a  man  to  break  down  at  the  outset  o'  a  great  career! 

[275  ] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GREEK  SHUTTERS 

....  For  ye  are  at  the  outset  o'  a  great  career;  are 
ye  na?  " 

His  speech  was  as  soft  as  the  foot  of  a  tiger,  and 
sheathed  as  rending  a  cruelty.  There  was  no  escaping 
the  crouching  stealth  of  it.  If  he  had  leapt  with  a 
roar,  John's  drunken  fury  might  have  lashed  itself  to 
rage.  But  the  younger  and  weaker  man  was  fascinated 
and  helpless  before  the  creeping  approach  of  so  mon- 
strous a  wrath. 

"Eh?"  asked  Gourlay  softly,  when  John  made  no 
reply,  "  I'm  saying  you're  at  the  outset  o'  a  great  career, 
are  ye  not?    Eh?" 

Soft  as  his  "  Eh  "  was  in  utterance,  it  was  insinua- 
ting, pursuing;  it  had  to  be  answered. 

"  No,"  whimpered  John. 

"  Well,  well;  you're  maybe  at  the  end  o't!  Have  ye 
been  studying  hard?  " 

"  Yes,"  lied  John. 

"  That's  right! "  cried  his  father  with  great  hearti- 
ness. "  There's  my  brave  fellow!  ISToathing  like  study- 
ing! .  .  .  And  no  doubt " — he  leaned  over  suavely — 
"  and  no  doubt  ye've  brought  a  wheen  prizes  home  wi' 
ye  as  usual?    Eh?  " 

There  was  no  answer. 

"Eh?" 

"  No,"  gulped  the  cowerer. 

"  Nae  prizes!  "  cried  Gourlay,  and  his  eyebrows  went 
up  in  a  pretended  surprise.  "  Nae-ae  prizes!  Aye,  man! 
Fow's  that,  na?  " 

Young  Gourlay  was  being  reduced  to  the  condition 
of  a  beaten  child,  who,  when  his  mother  asks  if  he  has 
been  a  bad  boy,  is  made  to  sob  "Yes,"  at  her  knee. 

[276] 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-FIVE 

"Have  you  been  a  good  boy?"  she  asks — "No,"  he 
pants;  and  "  Are  you  sorry  for  being  a  bad  boy?  " — 
"  Yes,"  he  sobs;  and  "  Will  you  be  a  good  boy  now, 
then  ?  " — "  Yes,"  he  almost  shrieks,  in  his  desire  to  be 
at  one  with  his  mother.  Young  Gourlay  was  being 
equally  beaten  from  his  own  nature,  equally  battered 
under  by  another  personality.  Only  he  was  not  asked 
to  be  a  good  boy.  He  might  gang  to  hell  for  any- 
thing auld  Gourlay  cared — when  once  he  had  bye  with 
him. 

Even  as  he  degraded  his  son  to  this  state  of  un- 
natural cowardice,  Gourlay  felt  a  vast  disgust  swell 
within  him  that  a  son  of  his  should  be  such  a  coward. 
"  Damn  him!  "  he  thought,  glowering  with  big-eyed 
contempt  at  the  huddled  creature,  "  he  hasna  the  pluck 
o'  a  pig!  How  can  he  stand  talk  like  this  without  show- 
ing he's  a  man?  When  I  was  a  child  on  the  brisket, 
if  a  man  had  used  me,  as  I'm  using  him,  I  would  have 
flung  my  sell  at  him.  He's  a  pretty-looking  object  to 
carry  the  name  o'  John  Gourla!  My  God,  what  a  ke-o 
of  my  life  I've  made — that  auld  trollop  for  my  wife, 
that  sumph  for  my  son,  and  that  dving  lassie  for  my 
dochter!     Was  it  "l  that  bred  him?     That!'' 

He  leapt  to  his  feet  in  devilish  merriment. 

"  Set  out  the  spirits,  Jenny!  "  he  cried;  "  set  out  the 
spirits!  My  son  and  I  must  have  a  drink  together — to 
celebrate  the  occeesion;  ou  aye,"  he  sneered,  drawling 
out  the  word  with  sharp,  unfamiliar  sound,  "  just  to 
celebrate  the  occeesion!  " 

The  wild  humour  that  seized  him  was  inevitable,  born 
of  a  vicious  effort  to  control  a  rage  that  was  constantly 
increasing,  fed  by  the  sight  of  the  offender.     Every 

[377] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GREEK  SHUTTERS 

time  he  glanced  across  at  the  thing  sitting  there,  he  was 
swept  with  fresh  surges  of  fury  and  disgust.  But  his 
vicious  constraint  curbed  them  under,  and  refused  them 
a  natural  expression.  They  sought  an  unnatural.  Some 
vent  they  must  have,  and  they  found  it  in  a  score  of 
wild  devilries  he  began  to  practise  on  his  son.  Wrath 
fed  and  checked,  in  one,  brings  the  hell  on  which  man 
is  built  to  the  surface.  Gourlay  was  transformed.  He 
had  a  fluency  of  speech,  a  power  of  banter,  a  readiness 
of  tongue,  which  he  had  never  shewn  before.  He  was 
beyond  himself.  Have  you  heard  the  snarl  with  which 
a  wild  beast  arrests  the  escaping  prey  which  it  has  just 
let  go  in  enjoying  cruelty?  Gourlay  was  that  animal. 
For  a  moment  he  would  cease  to  torture  his  son,  feed 
his  disgust  with  a  glower;  then  the  sight  of  him  huddled 
there  would  wake  a  desire  to  stamp  on  him;  but  his  will 
would  not  allow  that,  for  it  would  spoil  the  sport  he  had 
set  his  mind  on;  and  so  he  played  with  the  victim  which 
he  would  not  kill. 

"  Set  out  the  speerits,  Jenny,"  he  birred,  when  she 
wavered  in  fear.  "  What  are  ye  shaking  for?  Set  out 
the  speerits — just  to  shelebrate  the  joyful  occeesion,  ye 
know — aye,  aye,  just  to  shelebrate  the  joyful  occee- 
sion! " 

Janet  brought  a  tray,  with  glasses,  from  the  pantry. 
As  she  walked,  the  rims  of  the  glasses  shivered  and 
tinkled  against  each  other,  from  her  trembling.  Then 
she  set  a  bottle  on  the  table. 

Gourlay  sent  it  crashing  to  the  floor.  "  A  bottle! " 
he  roared.  "  A  bottle  for  huz  twa!  To  Hell  wi'  bottles! 
The  jar,  Jenny,  the  jar;  set  out  the  jar,  lass,  set  out  the 
jar.    For  we  mean  to  make  a  night  of  it,  this  gentleman 

[378] 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-FIYE 

and  me.  Aye,"  he  yawed  with  a  vicious  smile,  "  we'll 
make  a  night  o't — we  two.  A  night  that  Barbie'll  re- 
member loang! " 

"  Have  ye  skill  o'  drink?  "  he  asked,  turning  to  his 
son. 

"  No,"  wheezed  John. 

"  No !  "  cried  his  father.  "  I  thought  ye  learned 
everything  at  College!  Your  education's  been  neg- 
lected. But  I'll  teach  ye  a  lesson,  or  this  nicht's  bye. 
Aye,  by  God,"  he  growled,  "  I'll  teach  ye  a  lesson." 

Curb  his  temper  as  he  might,  his  own  behaviour  was 
lashing  it  to  frenzy.  Through  the  moaning  intensity 
peculiar  to  his  vicious  rage,  there  leapt  at  times  a  wild- 
beast  snarl.  Every  time  they  heard  it,  it  cut  the  veins 
of  his  listeners  with  a  start  of  fear — it  leapt  so  suddenly. 

"  Ha'e,  Sir!  "  he  cried. 

John  raised  his  dull,  white  face  and  looked  across  at 
the  bumper  which  his  father  poured  him.  But  he  felt 
the  limbs  too  weak  beneath  him  to  go  and  take  it. 

"  Bide  where  ye  are !  "  sneered  his  father,  "  bide  where 
ye  are!  I'll  wait  on  ye;  I'll  wait  on  ye.  Man,  I  waited 
on  ye  the  day  that  ye  were  bo-orn!  The  heavens  were 
hammering  the  world  as  John  Gourla  rode  through  the 
storm  for  a  doctor  to  bring  hame  his  heir.  The  world 
was  feared,  but  he  wasna  feared,"  he  roared  in  Titanic 
pride,  "  he  wasna  feared;  no,  by  God,  for  he  never  met 
what  scaured  him!  .  .  .  Aye,  aye,"  he  birred  softly 
again,  "  aye,  aye,  ye  were  ushered  loudly  to  the  world, 
serr!  Verra  appropriate  for  a  man  who  was  destined  to 
make  such  a  name!  .  .  .  Eh?  .  .  .  Verra  appropriate, 
serr;  verra  appropriate!  And  you'll  be  ushered  just  as 
loudly  out  o't.    Oh,  young  Gourlay's  death  maun  make 

[279] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GREEN  SHUTTERS 

a  splurge,  ye  know — a  splurge  to  attract  folk's  atten- 
tion! " 

John's  shaking  hand  was  wet  with  the  spilled  whiskey. 

"  Take  it  off,"  sneered  his  father,  boring  into  him 
with  a  vicious  eye;  "  take  it  off,  serr;  take  oif  your 
dram! — Stop!  Somebody  wrote  something  about  that — 
some  poetry  or  other.    Who  was  it?  " 

"  I  dinna  ken,"  whimpered  John. 

"  Don't  tell  lies  now.  You  do  ken.  I  heard  you 
inention  it  to  Loranogie.    Come  on  now — who  was  it?  " 

"  It  was  Burns,"  said  John. 

"  Oh,  it  was  Burns,  was  it?  And  what  had  Mr.  Burns 
to  say  on  the  subject?    Eh?  " 

" '  Freedom  and  whiskey  gang  thegither,  Tak  aff 
your  dram,' "  stammered  John. 

"  A  verra  wise  remark,"  said  Gourlay  gravely. 
" '  Freedom  and  whiskey  gang  thegither,' "  he  turned 
the  quotation  on  his  tongue,  as  if  he  were  savouring  a 
tit-bit.  "  That's  verra  good,"  he  approved.  "  You're 
a  great  admirer  of  Burns,  I  hear.    Eh?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  John. 

"  Do  what  he  bids  ye,  then.  Take  off  your  dram! 
It'll  show  what  a  fine  free  fellow  you  are!  " 

It  was  a  big,  old-fashioned  Scotch  drinking  glass,  con- 
taining more  than  half-a-gill  of  whiskey,  and  John 
drained  it  to  the  bottom.  To  him  it  had  been  a  deadly 
thing  at  first,  coming  thus  from  his  father's  hand.  He 
had  taken  it  into  his  own,  with  a  feeling  of  aversion, 
that  was  strangely  blended  of  disgust  and  fear.  But  the 
moment  it  touched  his  lips,  desire  leapt  in  his  throat 
to  get  at  it. 

"Good!'^   roared   his   father   in   mock   admiration. 

[  280  ] 


CHAPTER  TWEKTY-FIVE 

"  God,  ye  have  the  thrapple!  When  I  was  your  age  that 
would  have  choked  me.  I  must  have  a  look  at  that 
throat  o'  yours.  Stand  up!  .  .  .  Stand  up  when  I 
tairee!" 

John  rose  swaying  to  his  feet.  Months  of  constant 
tippling,  culminating  in  a  wild  debauch,  had  shattered 
him.  He  stood  in  a  reeling  world.  And  the  fear  weak- 
ening his  limbs  changed  his  drunken  stupor  to  a  heart- 
heaving  sickness.  He  swayed  to  and  fro,  with  a  cold 
sweat  oozing  from  his  chalky  face. 

"  WTiat's  ado  wi'  the  fellow?  "  cried  Gourlay.  "  Oom? 
He's  swinging  like  a  saugh-wand.  I  must  wa-alk  round 
this,  and  have  a  look!  " 

John's  drunken  submissiveness  encouraged  his  father 
to  new  devilries.  The  ease  with  which  he  tortured  him 
provoked  him  to  more  torture;  he  went  on  more  and 
more  viciously,  as  if  he  were  conducting  an  experiment, 
to  see  how  much  the  creature  would  bear  before  he 
turned.  Gourlay  was  enjoying  the  glutting  of  his  own 
wrath. 

He  turned  his  son  round  with  a  finger  and  thumb 
on  his  shoulder,  in  insolent  inspection,  as  you  turn  an 
urchin  round  to  see  him  in  his  new  suit  of  clothes. 
Then  he  crouched  before  him,  his  face  thrust  close  to 
the  other,  and  peered  into  his  eyes,  his  mouth  distent 
with  an  infernal  smile.  "  My  boy,  Johnny,"  he  said 
sweetly,  "  my  boy,  Johnny,"  and  patted  him  gently  on 
the  cheek.  John  raised  dull  eyes  and  looked  into  his 
father's.  Far  within  him  a  great  wrath  was  gathering 
through  his  fear.  Another  voice,  another  self,  seemed 
to  whimper,  with  dull  iteration,  "  I'll  hill  him;  I'll  Jcill 
him;  by  God,  I'll  kill  him — if  he  doesna  stop  this — if  he 

[  281  ] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GREEN  SHUTTERS 

keeps  on  like  this  at  me!  "  But  his  present  and  material 
self  was  paralysed  with  fear. 

"  Open  your  mouth!  "  came  the  snarl — "  wider,  damn 
ye!  wider!  " 

"  Im-phm! "  said  Gourlay,  with  a  critical  drawl, 
pulling  John's  chin  about  to  see  into  him  the  deeper. 
"  Im-phm!  God,  it's  like  a  furnace!  What's  the  Latin 
for  throat?  " 

"  Guttur,"  said  John. 

"  Gutter!  "  said  his  father.  "  A  verra  appropriate 
name!  Yours  stinks  like  a  cess-pool!  What  have  you  been 
doing  tiirt?  I'm  afraid  ye  aren't  in  very  good  health, 
after  a-all.  .  .  .  Eh?  .  .  .  Mrs.  Gourla,  Mrs.  Gourla! 
He's  in  verra  bad  case,  this  son  of  yours,  Mrs.  Gourla! 
Fine  I  ken  what  he  needs,  though.  Set  out  the  brandy, 
Jenny,  set  out  the  brandy,"  he  roared;  "  whiskey's  not 
worth  a  damn  for  him!  Stop;  it  was  you  gaed  the  last 
time;  it's  your  turn  now,  auld  wife,  it's  your  turn  now! 
Gang  for  the  brandy  to  your  twa  John  Gourlas.  We're 
a  pair  for  a  woman  to  be  proud  of!  " 

He  gazed  after  his  wife  as  she  tottered  to  the  pantry. 

"  Your  skirt's  on  the  gape,  auld  wife,"  he  sang;  *'  your 
skirt's  on  the  gape;  as  use-u-al,"  he  drawled;  "  as  use- 
u-al.  It  was  always  like  that;  and  it  always  scunnered 
me,  for  I  aye  liked  things  tidy — though  I  never  got 
them.  However,  I  maunna  compleen  when  ye  bore  sic 
a  braw  son  to  my  name.  He's  a  great  consolation! 
Imphm,  he  is  that — a  great  consolation!  " 

The  brandy-bottle  slipped  from  the  quivering  fingers 
and  was  smashed  to  pieces  on  the  floor. 

"  Hurrah!  "  yelled  Gourlay. 

He  seemed  rapt  and  carried  by  his  own  devilry.    The 

[282  ] 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-FIVE 

wreck  and  ruin  strewn  about  the  floor  consorted  with 
the  ruin  of  his  fortunes;  let  all  go  smash — what  was  the 
use  of  caring?  Now  in  his  frenzy,  he,  ordinarily  so 
careful,  seemed  to  delight  in  the  smashings  and  the 
breakings;  they  suited  his  despair. 

He  saw  that  his  spirit  of  destruction  frightened  them, 
too,  and  that  was  another  reason  to  indulge  it. 

"  To  Hell  with  everything,"  he  yelled,  like  a  mock- 
bacchanal.  "  We're  the  hearty  fellows!  We'll  make  a 
red  night  now  we're  at  it!  "  And  with  that  he  took  the 
heel  of  a  bottle  on  his  toe  and  sent  it  flying,  among  the 
dishes  on  the  dresser.    A  great  plate  fell,  split  in  two. 

"Poor  fellow!"  he  whined,  turning  to  his  son; 
"poo-oor  fellow!  I  fear  he  has  lost  his  pheesic.  For 
that  was  the  last  bottle  o'  brandy  in  my  aucht;  the  last 
John  Gourlay  had,  the  last  he'll  ever  buy.  What  am 
I  to  do  wi'  ye,  now?  ...  Eh?  ...  I  must  do  some- 
thing; it's  coming  to  the  bit,  now.  Sir." 

As  he  stood  in  a  heaving  silence  the  sobbing  of  the 
two  women  was  heard  through  the  room.  John  was  still 
swaying  on  the  floor. 

Sometimes  Gourlay  would  run  the  full  length  of  the 
kitchen,  and  stand  there  glowering  on  a  stoop;  then  he 
would  come  crouching  up  to  his  son  on  a  vicious  little 
trot,  pattering  in  rage,  the  broken  glass  crunching  and 
grinding  beneath  his  feet.  At  any  moment  he  might 
spring. 

"  What  do  ye  think  I  mean  to  do  wi'  ye  now?  "  he 
moaned.  .  .  .  "  Eh?  .  .  .  What  do  ye  think  I  mean  to 
do  wi'  ye  now?  " 

As  he  came  grinning  in  rage  his  lips  ran  out  to  their 
full  width,  and  the  tense  slit  shewed  his  teeth  to  their 

[283] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GREEN  SHUTTERS 

roots.  The  gums  were  white.  The  stricture  of  the  lips 
had  squeezed  them  bloodless. 

He  went  back  to  the  dresser  once  more  and  bent  low 
beside  it,  glancing  at  his  son  across  his  left  shoulder, 
with  his  head  flung  back  sideways,  his  right  fist  clenched 
low  and  ready  from  a  curve  of  the  elbow.  It  swung 
heavy  as  a  mallet  by  his  thigh.  Janet  got  to  her  knees 
and  came  shuffling  across  the  floor  on  them,  though  her 
dress  was  tripping  her,  clasping  her  outstretched  hands, 
and  sobbing  in  appeal,  "  Faither,  faither;  oh,  faither; 
for  God's  sake,  faither!  "  She  clung  to  him.  He  un- 
clenched his  fist  and  lifted  her  away.  Then  he  came 
crouching  and  quivering  across  the  floor,  slowly,  a 
gleaming  devilry  in  the  eyes  that  devoured  his  son. 
His  hands  were  like  outstretched  claws,  and  shivered 
with  each  shiver  of  the  voice  that  moaned,  through  set 
teeth,  "  "What  do  ye  think  I  mean  to  do  wi'  ye  now?  .  .  . 
What  do  ye  think  I  mean  to  do  wi'  ye  now?  .  .  .  Ye 
damned  sorrow  and  disgrace  that  ye  are — what  do  ye 
think  I  mean  to  do  wi'  ye  now?  " 

"  Run,  John !  "  screamed  Mrs.  Gourlay,  leaping  to  her 
feet.  With  a  hunted  cry  young  Gourlay  sprang  to  the 
door.  So  great  had  been  the  fixity  of  Gourlay's  wrath,  so 
tense  had  he  been  in  one  direction,  as  he  moved  slowly 
on  his  prey,  that  he  could  not  leap  to  prevent  him.  As 
John  plunged  into  the  cool,  soft  darkness,  his  mother's 
"  Thank  God!  "  rang  past  him  on  the  night. 

His  immediate  feeling  was  of  coolness  and  width  and 
spaciousness,  in  contrast  with  the  hot  grinding  hostility, 
that  had  bored  so  closely  in  on  him,  for  the  last  hour. 
He  felt  the  benignness  of  the  darkened  heavens.  A 
tag  of  some  forgotten  poem  he  had  read  came  back  to  his 

[  284  ] 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-FIVE 

mind,  and,  "  Come  kindly  night  and  cover  me,"  he 
muttered,  with  shaking  lips;  and  felt  how  true  it  was. 
My  God,  what  a  relief  to  be  free  of  his  father's  eyes! 
They  had  held  him  till  his  mother's  voice  broke  the 
spell.    They  seemed  to  burn  him  now. 

What  a  fool  he  had  been  to  face  his  father  when 
empty  both  of  food  and  drink.  Every  man  was  down- 
hearted when  he  was  empty.  If  his  mother  had  had 
time  to  get  the  tea,  it  would  have  been  different, — but 
the  fire  had  been  out  when  he  went  in.  "  He  wouldn't 
have  downed  me  so  easy,  if  I  had  had  anything  in  me," 
he  muttered,  and  his  anger  grew,  as  he  thought  of  all  he 
had  been  made  to  suffer.  For  he  was  still  the  swag- 
gerer. Now  that  the  incubus  of  his  father's  tyranny 
no  longer  pressed  on  him  directly,  a  great  hate  rose 
within  him  for  the  tyrant.  He  would  go  back  and  have 
it  out  when  he  was  primed.  "  It's  the  only  hame  I 
have,"  he  sobbed  angrily  to  the  darkness;  "  I  have  no 
other  place  to  gang  till!  Yes,  I'll  go  back  and  have  it 
out  with  him  when  once  I  get  something  in  me,  so  I 
will."  It  was  no  disgrace  to  suck  courage  from  the 
bottle,  for  that  encounter  with  his  father,  for  nobody 
could  stand  up  to  black  Gourlay;  nobody.  Young  Gour- 
lay  was  yielding  to  a  peculiar  fatalism  of  minds  diseased: 
all  that  affects  them  seems  different  from  all  that  affects 
everybody  else;  they  are  even  proud  of  their  separate 
and  peculiar  doom.  Young  Gourlay  not  thought,  but 
felt  it — he  was  different  from  everybody  else.  The 
heavens  had  cursed  nobody  else  with  such  a  terrible  sire. 
It  was  no  cowardice  to  fill  yourself  with  drink  before 
you  faced  him. 

A  drunkard  will  howl  you  an  obscene  chorus  the  mo- 

i  285  ] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GREEN  SHUTTERS 

ment  after  he  has  wept  about  his  dead  child.  For  a 
mind  in  the  delirium  of  drink  is  no  longer  a  coherent 
whole,  but  a  heap  of  shattered  bits,  which  it  shows  one 
after  the  other  to  the  world.  Hence  the  many  transfor- 
mations of  that  semi-madness,  and  their  quick  variety. 
Young  Gourlay  was  shewing  them  now.  His  had  always 
been  a  wandering  mind,  deficient  in  application  and  con- 
trol, and  as  he  neared  his  final  collapse,  it  became  more 
and  more  variable,  the  prey  of  each  momentary  thought. 
In  a  short  five  minutes  of  time,  he  had  been  alive  to  the 
beauty  of  the  darkness,  cowering  before  the  memory  of 
his  father's  eyes,  sobbing  in  self-pity  and  angry  resolve, 
shaking  in  terror — indeed  he  was  shaking  now.  But  his 
vanity  came  uppermost.  As  he  neared  the  Red  Lion, 
he  stopped  suddenly,  and  the  darkness  seemed  on  fire 
against  his  cheeks.  He  would  have  to  face  curious  eyes, 
he  reflected.  It  was  from  the  Red  Lion  he  and  Aird 
had  started  so  grandly  in  the  autumn.  It  would  never 
do  to  come  slinking  back  like  a  whipped  cur;  he  must 
carry  it  off  bravely  in  case  the  usual  busybodies  should 
be  gathered  round  the  bar.  So  with  his  coat  flapping 
lordly  on  either  side  of  him,  his  hands  deep  in  his 
trouser-pockets,  and  his  hat  on  the  back  of  his  head, 
he  drove  at  the  swing-doors  with  an  outshot  chest,  and 
entered  with  a  "  breenge."  But  for  all  his  swagger  he 
must  have  had  a  face  like  death,  for  there  was  a  cry 
among  the  idlers.  A  man  breathed,  "  My  God!  What's 
the  matter?  "  With  shaking  knees  Gourlay  advanced 
to  the  bar,  and,  "  For  God's  sake,  Aggie,"  he  whispered, 
"give  me  a  Kinblythmont!  " 

It  went  at  a  gulp. 

"  Another! "  he  gasped,  like  a  man  dying  of  thirst, 

[286] 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-FIVE 

whom  his  first  sip  maddens  for  more.  "  Another!  An- 
other! " 

He  had  tossed  the  other  down  his  burning  throat, 
when  Deacon  Allardyce  came  in. 

He  knew  his  man  the  moment  he  set  eyes  on  him,  but, 
stancKng  at  the  door,  he  arched  his  hand  above  his 
brow,  as  you  do  in  gazing  at  a  dear  unexpected  friend, 
whom  you  pretend  not  to  be  quite  sure  of,  so  surprised 
and  pleased  are  you  to  see  him  there. 

"  Ith  it  Dyohn?  "  he  cried.  "  It  ith  Dyohn!  "  And 
he  toddled  forward  with  outstretched  hand.  "  Man 
Dyohn!  "  he  said  again,  as  if  he  could  scarce  believe  the 
good  news,  and  he  waggled  the  other's  hand  up  and 
down,  with  both  his  own  clasped  over  it.  "  I'm  proud 
to  thee  you,  thir;  I  am  that.  And  tho  you're  won  hame, 
aye!    Im-phm!    And  how  are  ye  tummin  on?" 

"  Oh,  /'m  all  right.  Deacon,"  said  Gourlay  with  a  silly 
laugh.  "  Have  a  wet?  "  The  whiskey  had  begun  to 
warm  him. 

"  A  wha-at?  "  said  the  Deacon,  blinking  in  a  puzzled 
fashion  with  his  bleary  old  eyes. 

"  A  dram — a  drink — a  drop  o'  the  Auld  Kirk,"  said 
Gourlay,  with  a  stertorous  laugh  down  through  his  nos- 
trils. 

"  Hi!  Hi!  "  laughed  the  Deacon  in  his  best  falsetto. 
"  Ith  that  what  ye  call  it  up  in  Embro?  A  wet,  aye! 
Ah,  well,  maybe  I  will  take  a  little  drope — theeing 
you're  tho  ready  wi'  your  offer." 

They  drank  together. 

"  Aggie,  fill  me  a  mutchkin  when  you're  at  it,"  said 
Gourlay  to  the  pretty  barmaid  with  the  curly  hair.  He 
had  spent  many  an  hour  with  her  last  summer  in  the 

[287] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GREEN  SHUTTERS 

bar.  The  four  big  whiskies  he  had  swallowed  in  the 
last  half  hour,  were  singing  in  him  now,  and  he  blinked 
at  her  drunkenly. 

There  was  a  scarlet  ribbon  on  her  dark  curls,  coquet- 
tish, vivid,  and  Gourlay  stared  at  it  dreamily,  partly  in 
a  drunken  daze,  and  partly  because  a  striking  colour 
always  brought  a  musing  and  self -forgetting  look  within 
his  eyes.  All  his  life  he  used  to  stare  at  things  dreamily, 
and  come  to  himself  with  a  start  when  spoken  to.  He 
forgot  himself  now. 

"  Aggie,"  he  said,  and  put  his  hand  out  to  hers  clum- 
sily where  it  rested  on  the  counter;  "  Aggie,  that  rib- 
bon's infernal  bonny  on  your  dark  hair!  " 

She  tossed  her  head,  and  perked  away  from  him  on 
her  little  high  heels.  Him,  indeed! — the  drunkard! 
She  wanted  none  of  his  compliments! 

There  were  half  a  dozen  in  the  place  by  this  time,  and 
they  all  stared  with  greedy  eyes.  "  That's  young  Gour- 
lay— him  that  was  expelled"  was  heard,  the  last  an  em- 
phatic whisper,  with  round  eyes  of  awe  at  the  offence 
that  must  have  merited  such  punishment.  "  Expelled, 
mind  ye!  " — with  a  round  shake  of  the  head.  "  Watch 
Allardyce.    We'll  see  fun." 

"  What's  this  '  expelled  '  is,  now?  "  said  John  Toodle, 
with  a  very  considering  look  and  tone  in  his  uplifted 
face — "  properly  speaking,  that  is,"  he  added — implying 
that  of  course  he  knew  the  word  in  its  ordinary  sense, 
but  was  not  sure  of  it  "  properly  speaking." 

"  Flung  oot,"  said  Drucken  Wabster,  speaking  from 
the  fulness  of  his  own  experience. 

"Whisht!"  said  a  third.  "Here's  Tam  Brodie. 
Watch  what  he  does." 

[  288  ] 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-FIVE 

The  entrance  of  Brodie  spoiled  sport  for  the  Deacon. 
He  had  nothing  of  that  malicious  finesse  that  made  Al- 
lardyce  a  genius  at  flicking  men  on  the  raw.  He  went 
straight  to  his  work,  stabbing  like  an  awl. 

"  Hal-lo !  "  he  cried,  pausing  with  contempt  in  the 
middle  of  the  word,  when  he  saw  young  Gourlay.  "  Hal- 
lo! You  here! — Brig  o'  the  Mains,  Miss,  if  you  please. 
— Aye  man!  God,  you've  been  making  a  name  up  in  Em- 
bro.  I  hear  you  stood  up  till  him  gey  weel " — and  he 
winked  openly  to  those  around. 

Young  Gourlay's  maddened  nature  broke  at  the  in- 
sult. "  Damn  you,"  he  screamed,  "  leave  me  alone,  will 
you?    I  have  done  nothing  to  you,  have  I?  " 

Brodie  stared  at  him  across  his  suspended  whiskey- 
glass,  an  easy  and  assured  contempt  curling  his  lip. 
"  Don't  greet  owre't,  my  bairn,"  said  he — and  even  as 
he  spoke  John's  glass  shivered  on  his  grinning  teeth. 
Brodie  leapt  on  him,  lifted  him,  and  sent  him  flying. 

"  That's  a  game  of  your  father's,  you  damned  dog,"  he 
roared,  "  But  there's  mair  than  him  can  play  the 
game!  " 

"  Canny,  my  freendth,  canny!  "  piped  Allardyce,  who 
was  vexed  at  a  fine  chance  for  his  peculiar  craft,  being 
spoiled  by  mere  brutality  of  handling.  All  this  was 
most  inartistic.    Brodie  never  had  the  fine  stroke. 

Gourlay  picked  himself  bleeding  from  the  floor,  and 
holding  a  handkerchief  to  his  mouth,  plunged  headlong 
from  the  room.  He  heard  the  derisive  roar  that  came 
after  him,  stop — strangled  by  the  sharp  swing-to  of  the 
door.  But  it  seemed  to  echo  in  his  burning  ears  as  he 
strode  niadly  on  through  the  darkness.  He  uncorked 
his  mutchkin  and  drank  it  like  water.    His  swollen  lip 

[  289  ] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GREEN  SHUTTERS 

smarted  at  first,  but  he  drank  till  it  was  a  mere  dead 
lump  to  his  tongue,  and  he  could  not  feel  the  whiskey 
on  the  wound. 

His  mind  at  first  was  a  burning  whirl  through  drink 
and  rage;  with  nothing  determined  and  nothing  def- 
inite. But  thought  began  to  shape  itself.  In  a  vast 
vague  circle  of  consciousness  his  mind  seemed  to  sit 
in  the  centre  and  think  with  preternatural  clearness. 
Though  all  around  was  whirling  and  confused,  drink 
had  endowed  some  inner  eye  of  the  brain  with  unnatural 
swift  vividness.  Far  within  the  humming  circle  of  his 
mind  he  saw  an  instant  and  terrible  revenge  on  Brodie, 
acted  it  and  lived  it  now.  His  desires  were  murderers, 
and  he  let  them  slip,  gloating  in  the  cruelties  that  hot 
fancy  wreaked  upon  his  enemy.  Then  he  suddenly  re- 
membered his  father.  A  rush  of  fiery  blood  seemed  to 
drench  all  his  body,  as  he  thought  of  what  had  passed 
between  them.  "  But,  by  Heaven,"  he  swore,  as  he 
threw  away  his  empty  bottle,  "  he  won't  use  me  like  that 
another  time;  I  have  blood  in  me  now."  His  maddened 
fancy  began  building  a  new  scene,  with  the  same  actors, 
the  same  conditions,  as  the  other,  but  an  issue  gloriously 
diverse.  "With  vicious  delight  he  heard  his  father  use  the 
same  sneers,  the  same  gibes,  the  same  brutalities — then 
he  turned  suddenly  and  had  him  under  foot,  kicking, 
bludgeoning,  stamping  the  life  out.  He  would  do  it,  by 
Heaven,  he  would  do  it!  The  memory  of  what  had  hap- 
pened came  fierily  back,  and  made  the  pressing  dark- 
ness burn.  His  wrath  was  brimming  on  the  edge,  ready 
to  burst,  and  he  felt  proudly  that  it  would  no  longer  ebb 
in  fear.  Whiskey  had  killed  fear,  and  left  a  hysterical 
madman,  all  the  more  dangerous  because  he  was  so 

[  290  ] 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-FIVE 

weak.  Let  his  father  try  it  on  now!  He  was  ready  for 
him! 

And  his  father  was  ready  for  him;  for  he  knew  what 
had  happened  at  the  inn.  Mrs.  Webster,  on  her  nightly 
hunt  for  the  man  she  had  sworn  to  honour  and  obey, 
having  drawn  several  public  houses  blank,  ran  him  to 
earth  at  last,  in  the  barroom  of  the  Red  Lion.  "  Yes, 
yes,  Kirsty,"  he  cried,  eager  to  prevent  her  tongue, 
"  I  know  I'm  a  blagyird — but,  oh  the  terrible  thing  that 
has  happened!  "  He  so  possessed  her  with  his  graphic 
tale  that  he  was  allowed  to  go  chuckling  back  to  his 
potations,  while  she  ran  hot-foot  to  the  Green  Shut- 
ters. 

"  Eh,  poo-oor  Mrs.  Gourlay;  and  oh,  your  poo-oor  boy, 
too;  and  eh,  that  brute,  Tam  Brodie! — "  even  as  she 
came  through  the  door  the  voluble  clatter  was  shrilling 
out  the  big  tidings,  before  she  was  aware  of  Gourlay's 
presence.    She  faltered  beneath  his  black  glower. 

"  Go  on!  "  he  said,  and  ground  it  out  of  her. 

"The  damned  sumph!  "  he  growled,  "to  let  Brodie 
hammer  him!  "  For  a  moment,  it  is  true,  his  anger  was 
divided,  stood  in  equipoise,  even  dipped  '  Brodie-ward.' 
"  I've  an  account  to  sattle  wi'  him!  "  he  thought  grimly. 
"  When  I  get  my  claw  on  his  neck,  I'll  teach  him  better 
than  to  hit  a  Gourlay!  I  wonder,"  he  mused,  with  a 
pride  in  which  was  neither  doubt  nor  wonder,  "  I  wonder 
will  he  fling  the  father  as  he  flang  the  son!  "  But  that 
was  the  instinct  of  his  blood,  not  enough  to  make  him 
pardon  John.  On  the  contrary  here  was  a  new  offence 
of  his  offspring.  On  the  morrow  Barbie  would  be  burn- 
ing with  another  affront  which  he  had  put  upon  the 
name  of  Gourlay.     He  would  waste  no  time  when  he 

[291] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GREEN  SHUTTERS 

came  back,  be  he  drunk  or  be  he  sober;  he  would  strip 
the  flesh  off  him. 

'^  Jenny,"  he  said,  "  bring  me  the  step-ladder." 

He  would  pass  the  time  till  the  prodigal  came  back — 
and  he  was  almost  certain  to  come  back,  for  where  could 
he  go  in  Barbie? — he  would  pass  the  time,  by  trying  to 
improve  the  appearance  of  the  House.  He  had  spent 
money  on  his  house  till  the  last,  and  even  now,  had  the 
instinct  to  embellish  it.  Not  that  it  mattered  to  him 
now,  still  he  could  carry  out  a  small  improvement  he  had 
planned  before.  The  kitchen  was  ceiled  in  dark  timber, 
and  on  the  rich  brown  rafters  there  were  wooden  pegs 
and  bars,  for  the  hanging  of  Gourlay's  sticks  and  fishing 
rods.  His  gun  was  up  there,  too,  just  above  the  hearth. 
It  had  occurred  to  him  about  a  month  ago,  however,  that 
a  pair  of  curving  steel  rests,  that  would  catch  the  glint 
from  the  fire,  would  look  better  beneath  his  gun  than 
the  dull  pegs,  where  it  now  lay  against  a  joist.  He  might 
as  well  pass  the  time  by  putting  them  up. 

The  bringing  of  the  steps,  light  though  they  were,  was 
too  much  for  Janet's  weak  frame,  and  she  stopped  in  a  fit 
of  coughing,  clutching  the  ladder  for  support,  while  it 
shook  to  her  spasms. 

"  Tuts,  Jenny,  this'll  never  do,"  said  Gourlay,  not  un- 
kindly. He  took  the  ladder  away  from  her  and  laid  his 
hand  on  her  shoulder.  "Away  to  your  bed,  lass!  You 
maunna  sit  so  late." 

But  Janet  was  anxious  for  her  brother,  and  wanted  to 
sit  up  till  he  came  home.  She  answered,  "  Yes,"  to  her 
father,  but  idled  discreetly,  to  consume  the  time. 

"  Where's  my  hammer?  "  snarled  Gourlay. 

"  Is  it  no  by  the  clock?  "  said  his  wife  wearily.    "  Oh, 

[  292  ] 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-FIYE 

I  remember,  I  remember!  I  gied  it  to  Mrs.  "Webster  to 
break  some  brie-stone,  to  rub  the  front  door-step  wi'. 
It'll  be  lying  in  the  porch!  " 

"  Oh,  aye,  as  usual,"  said  Gourlay;  "  as  usual!  " 

"  John!  "  she  cried  in  alarm,  "  you  don't  mean  to  take 
down  the  gun,  do  ye?  " 

"  Huts,  you  auld  fule,  what  are  you  skirling  for? 
D'ye  think  I  mean  to  shoot  the  dog?  Set  back  on  your 
creepie,  and  make  less  noise,  will  ye  ?  " 

Ere  he  had  driven  a  nail  in  the  rafter  John  came  in, 
and  sat  down  by  the  fire,  taking  up  the  great  poker, 
as  if  to  cover  his  nervousness.  If  Gourlay  had  been  on 
the  floor  he  would  have  grappled  with  him  there  and 
then.  But  the  temptation  to  gloat  over  his  victim 
from  his  present  height  was  irresistible.  He  went  up 
another  step,  and  sat  down  on  the  very  summit  of  the 
ladder,  his  feet  resting  on  one  of  the  lower  rounds.  The 
hammer  he  had  been  using  was  lying  on  his  thigh,  his 
hand  clutched  about  its  haft. 

"  Aye  man,  you've  been  taking  a  bit  walk,  I  hear!  " 

John  made  no  reply,  but  played  with  the  poker.  It 
was  so  huge,  owing  to  Gourlay 's  whim,  that  when  it 
slid  through  his  fingers,  it  came  down  on  the  muifled 
hearthstone  with  a  thud  like  a  paviour's  hammer. 

"  I'm  told  you  saw  the  Deacon  on  your  rounds?  Did 
he  compliment  you  on  your  return?  " 

At  the  quiet  sneer  a  lightning-flash  shewed  John 
that  Allardyce  had  quizzed  him,  too.  For  a  moment 
he  was  conscious  of  a  vast  self-pity.  "  Damn  them, 
they're  all  down  on  me,"  he  thought.  Then  a  vindic- 
tive rage  against  them  all  took  hold  of  him,  tense,  quiv- 
ering. 

[393] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GEEEN  SHUTTERS 

"  Did  you  see  Thomas  Brodie  when  you  were  out?  " 
came  the  suave  enquiry. 

"  I  saw  him/'  said  John,  raising  fierce  eyes  to  his 
father's.  He  was  proud  of  the  sudden  firmness  in  his 
voice.  There  was  no  fear  in  it,  no  quivering.  He  was 
beyond  caring  what  happened  to  the  world  or  him. 

"  Oh,  you  saw  him,"  roared  Gourlay,  as  his  anger  leapt 
to  meet  the  anger  of  his  son.  "  And  what  did  he  say 
to  you,  may  I  spier?  .  .  .  Or  may  be  I  should  spier  what 
he  did  .  .  .  Eh?"  he  grinned. 

"  By  God,  I'll  kill  ye,"  screamed  John,  springing  to 
his  feet,  with  the  poker  in  his  hand.  The  hammer  went 
whizzing  past  his  ear.  Mrs.  Gourlay  screamed  and  tried 
to  rise  from  her  chair,  her  eyes  goggling  in  terror.  As 
Gourlay  leapt,  John  brought  the  huge  poker  with  a  ci-ash 
on  the  descending  brow.  The  fiercest  joy  of  his  life  was 
the  dirl  that  went  up  his  arm,  as  the  steel  thrilled  to  its 
own  hard  impact  on  the  bone.  Gourlay  thudded  on  the 
fender,  his  brow  crashing  on  the  rim. 

At  the  blow  there  had  been  a  cry  as  of  animals,  from 
the  two  women.  There  followed  an  eternity  of  silence, 
it  seemed,  and  a  haze  about  the  place,  yet  not  a  haze, 
for  everything  was  intensely  clear,  only  it  belonged  to 
another  world.  One  terrible  fact  had  changed  the  Uni- 
verse. The  air  was  different  now;  it  was  full  of  murder. 
Everything  in  the  room  had  a  new  significance,  a  sinister 
meaning.    The  effect  was  that  of  an.  unholy  spell. 

As  through  a  dream  Mrs.  Gourlay's  voice  was  heard 
crying  on  her  God. 

John  stood  there,  suddenly  weak  in  his  limbs,  and 
stared,  as  if  petrified,  at  the  red  poker  in  his  hand.  A 
little  wisp  of  grizzled  hair  stuck  to  the  square  of  it, 

[  294] 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-FIYE 

severed,  as  by  scissors,  between  the  sharp  edge  and  the 
bone.  It  was  the  sight  of  that  bit  of  hair  that  roused 
him  from  his  stupor — it  seemed  so  monstrous  and  hor- 
rible, sticking  all  by  itself  to  the  poker.  "  I  didna 
strike  him  so  hard,"  he  pleaded,  staring  vaguely,  "  I 
didna  strike  him  so  hard."  Now  that  the  frenzy  had 
left  him,  he  failed  to  realise  the  force  of  his  own  blow. 
Then  with  a  horrid  fear  on  him,  "  Get  up,  faither,"  he 
entreated,  "  get  up,  faither;  oh  man,  you  micht  get  up!  " 

Janet,  who  had  bent  above  the  fallen  man,  raised  an 
ashen  face  to  her  brother,  and  whispered  hoarsely,  "  His 
heart  has  stopped,  John;  you  have  killed  him!  " 

Steps  were  heard  coming  through  the  scullery.  In  the 
fear  of  discovery  Mrs.  Gourlay  shook  off  the  apathy  that 
held  her  paralysed.  She  sprang  up,  snatched  the  poker 
from  her  son,  and  thrust  it  in  the  embers. 

"  Eun,  John;  run  for  the  doctor,"  she  screamed. — 
"  Oh,  Mrs.  Webster,  Mrs.  Webster,  I'm  glad  to  see  ye. 
Mr.  Gourlay  fell  from  the  top  o'  the  ladder,  and  smashed 
his  brow  on  the  muckle  fender." 


[  295  J 


XXVI 

"Mother!"  came  the  startled  whisper,  "Mother! 
Oh,  woman,  waken  and  speak  to  me!  " 

jSTo  comforting  answer  came  from  the  darkness  to  tell 
of  a  human  being  close  at  hand:  the  girl,  intently  listen- 
ing, was  alone  with  her  fear.  All  was  silent  in  the  room 
and  the  terror  deepened.  Then  the  far-off  sound  in  the 
house  was  heard  once  more. 

"  Mother— mother,  what's  that?  " 

"What  is  it,  Janet?"  came  a  feebly  complaining 
voice,  "  what's  wrong  wi'  ye,  lassie?  " 

Janet  and  her  mother  were  sleeping  in  the  big  bed- 
room, Janet  in  the  place  that  had  been  her  father's.  He 
had  been  buried  through  the  day,  the  second  day  after  his 
murder.  Mrs.  Gourlay  had  shown  a  feverish  anxiety  to 
get  the  corpse  out  the  house  as  soon  as  possible.  And 
there  had  been  nothing  to  prevent  it.  "  Oh,"  said  Doc- 
tor Dandy  to  the  gossips,  "  it  would  have  killed  any  man 
to  fall  from  such  a  height  on  to  the  sharp  edge  of  yon 
fender. — No;  he  was  not  quite  dead  when  I  got  to  him. 
He  opened  his  eyes  on  me,  once — a  terrible  look — and 
then  life  went  out  of  him  with  a  great  quiver," 

Ere  Janet  could  answer  her  mother,  she  was  seized 
with  a  racking  cough,  and  her  hoarse  bark  sounded  hol- 
low in  the  silence.  At  last  she  sat  up  and  gasped  fear- 
fully, "  I  thocht — I  thocht  I  heard  something  moving!  " 

"  It  would  be  the  wind,"  plained  her  mother;  "  it 

[  ^^96  ] 


CHAPTEH  TWENTY-SIX 

would  just  be  the  wind.  John's  asleep  this  strucken 
hour  and  mair.  I  sat  by  his  bed  for  a  lang  while,  and  he 
prigged  and  prayed  for  a  dose  o'  the  whiskey  ere  he  won 
away.  He  wouldna  let  go  my  hand  till  he  slept,  puir 
fallow.  There's  an  unco  fear  on  him — an  unco  fear. 
But  try  and  fa'  owre,"  she  soothed  her  daughter.  "  That 
would  just  be  the  wind  ye  heard." 

"  There's  nae  wind!  "  said  Janet. 

The  stair  creaked.  The  two  women  clung  to  each 
other,  gripping  tight  fingers,  and  their  hearts  throbbed 
like  big  separate  beings  in  their  breasts.  There  was  a 
rustle,  as  of  something  coming,  then  the  door  opened, 
and  John  flitted  to  the  bedside  with  a  candle  in  his 
hand.  Above  his  night  shirt  his  bloodless  face  looked 
gray. 

"  Mother! "  he  panted,  "  there's  something  in  my 
room!  " 

"  What  is  it,  John?  "  said  his  mother  in  surprise  and 
fear. 

"  I — I  thocht  it  was  himsell !  Oh,  mother,  I'm  feared, 
I'm  feared!  Oh,  mother,  I'm  feared!"  He  sang  the 
words  in  a  hysterical  chant,  his  voice  rising  at  the  end. 

The  door  of  the  bedroom  clicked.  It  was  not  a 
slamming  sound,  only  the  door  went  to  gently,  as  if 
someone  closed  it.  John  dropped  the  candle  from  his 
shaking  hand,  and  was  left  standing  in  the  living  dark- 
ness. 

"Save  me!"  he  screamed,  and  leaped  into  the  bed, 
burrowing  down  between  the  women  till  his  head  was 
covered  by  the  bed  clothes.  He  trembled  so  violently 
that  the  bed  shook  beneath  them. 

"Let  me  bide  wi'  ye!"  he  pleaded  with  chattering 

[297] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GREEN  SHUTTERS 

jaws.    "Oh,  let  me  bide  wi' ye!    I  daurna  gang  back  to 
that  room  by  mysell  again." 

His  mother  put  her  thin  arm  round  him.  "Yes, 
dear,"  she  said;  "  you  may  bide  wi'  us.  Janet  and  me 
wouldna  let  anything  harm  you."  She  placed  her  hand 
on  his  brow  caressingly.  His  hair  was  damp  with  a  cold 
sweat.    He  reeked  of  alcohol. 

Someone  went  through  the  Square  playing  a  con- 
certina. That  sound  of  the  careless  world  came 
strangely  in  upon  their  lonely  tragedy.  By  contrast  the 
cheerful  silly  noise,  out  there,  seemed  to  intensify  their 
darkness  and  isolation  here.  Occasional  far-off  shouts 
were  heard  from  roysterers  going  home. 

Mrs.  Gourlay  lay  staring  at  the  darkness  with  intent 
CA^es.  What  horror  might  assail  her  she  did  not  know, 
but  she  was  ready  to  meet  it  for  the  sake  of  John.  "  Ye 
brought  it  on  yoursell,"  she  breathed  once,  as  if  defying 
an  unseen  accuser. 

It  was  hours  ere  he  slept,  but  at  last  a  heavy  sough 
told  her  he  had  found  oblivion.  "  He's  won  owre,"  she 
murmured  thankfully.  At  times  he  muttered  in  his 
sleep.    And,  at  times,  Janet  coughed  hoarsely  at  his  ear. 

"  Janet,  dinna  hoast  sae  loud,  woman!  You'll  waken 
your  brother." 

Janet  was  silent.  Then  she  choked— trying  to  stifle 
another  cough. 

"  Woman!  "  said  her  mother  complainingly,  "  that's 
surely  an  unco  hoast  ye  hae!  " 

"  Aye,"  said  Janet,  "  it's  a  gey  hoast." 

Next  morning  Postie  came  clattering  through  the 
paved  yard  in  his  tacketty  boots,  and  handed  in  a  blue 
envelope  at  the  back  door  with  a  business-like  air,  his 

[  298] 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-SIX 

ferretty  eyes  searching  Mrs.  Gourlay's  face,  as  she  took 
tlie  letter  from  his  hand.  But  she  betrayed  nothing  to 
his  curiosity  since  she  knew  nothing  of  her  husband's 
affairs,  and  had  no  fear,  therefore,  of  what  the  letter 
might  portend.  She  received  the  missive  with  a  vacant 
unconcern.  It  was  addressed  to  "  John  Gourlay,  Es- 
quire." She  turned  it  over  in  a  silly  puzzlement,  and, 
"  Janet!  "  she  cried,  "  what  am  I  to  do  wi'  this?  " 

She  shrank  from  opening  a  letter  addressed  to  her 
dead  tyrant,  unless  she  had  Janet  by  her  side.  It  was  so 
many  years  since  he  had  allowed  her  to  take  an  active 
interest  in  their  common  life  (indeed  he  never  had)  that 
she  was  as  helpless  as  a  child. 

"  It's  to  faither,"  said  Janet,  "  shall  I  waken  John?  " 

"  No,  puir  fellow,  let  him  sleep,"  said  his  mother.  "  I 
stole  in  to  look  at  him  enow,  and  his  face  was  unco  wan 
lying  down  on  the  pillow.  I'll  open  the  letter  mysell, 
though,  as  your  faither  used  to  tell  me,  I  never  had  a 
held  for  business." 

She  broke  the  seal  and  Janet,  looking  over  her  shoul- 
der, read  aloud  to  her  slower  mind: 

"  Glasgow, 

«  March  12th  18— 
"  Sir, 

"We  desire  once  more  to  call  your  attention  to  the 
fact  that  the  arrears  of  interest  on  the  mortgage  of  your 
house  have  not  been  paid.  Our  client  is  unwilling  to  pro- 
ceed to  extremities,  but  unless  you  make  some  arrange- 
ment within  a  week,  he  will  be  forced  to  take  the  neces- 
stary  steps  to  safeguard  his  interests. 
"  Yours  faithfully, 

"  Brodie,  Gurney  &  Yarrowby." 
[  299  ] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GEEEN  SHUTTERS 

Mrs.  Gourlay  sank  into  a  chair,  and  the  letter  slipped 
from  her  upturned  palm,  lying  slack  upon  her  knee. 

"Janet,"  she  said  appealingiy;  "what's  this  that  has 
come  on  us?  Does  the  house  we  live  in,  the  House  with 
the  Green  Shutters,  not  belong  to  us  ainy  more?  Tell 
me,  lassie.    What  does  it  mean?  " 

"  I  don't  ken,"  whispered  Janet  with  big  eyes.  "  Did 
faith er  never  tell  ye  of  the  bond?  " 

"  He  never  telled  me  about  anything,"  cried  Mrs. 
Gourlay  with  a  sudden  passion.  "  I  was  aye  the  one  to 
be  keepit  in  the  dark — to  be  keepit  in  the  dark  and  sore 
hadden  doon.  Oh!  are  we  left  destitute,  Janet — and 
us  was  aye  sae  muckle  thocht  o'!  And  me,  too,  that's 
come  of  decent  folk,  and  brought  him  a  gey  pickle  baw- 
bees! Am  I  to  be  on  the  parish  in  my  auld  age? — Oh, 
my  faither,  my  faith  er!  " 

Her  mind  flashed  back  to  the  jocose  and  well-to-do 
father  who  had  been  but  a  blurred  thought  to  her  for 
twenty  years.  That  his  daughter  should  come  to  a  pass 
like  this  was  enough  to  make  him  turn  in  his  grave. 
Janet  was  astonished  by  her  sudden  passion  in  feeble- 
ness. Even  the  murder  of  her  husband  had  been  met 
by  her  weak  mind  with  a  dazed  resignation.  For  her 
natural  horror  at  the  deed  was  swallowed  by  her  anxiety 
to  shield  the  murderer;  and  she  experienced  a  vague  re- 
lief— felt,  but  not  considered — at  being  freed  from  the 
incubus  of  Gourlay's  tyranny.  It  seemed,  too,  as  if  she 
was  incapable  of  feeling  anything  poignantly,  deadened 
now  by  these  quick  calamities.  But  that  she,  that  Ten- 
shillingland's  daughter,  should  come  to  be  an  object  of 
common  charity,  touched  some  hidden  nerve  of  pride, 
and  made  her  writhe  in  agony. 

[300  ] 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-SIX 

"  It  mayna  be  sae  bad,"  Janet  tried  to  comfort  her. 

"  Waken  John/'  said  her  mother  feverishly,  "  waken 
John  and  we'll  gang  through  his  faither's  dask.  There 
may  be  something  gude  amang  his  papers.  There  may 
be  something  gude!  "  she  gabbled  nervously;  "  yes,  there 
may  be  something  gude!  In  the  dask;  in  the  dask;  there 
may  be  something  gude  in  the  dask!  " 

John  staggered  into  the  kitchen  five  minutes  later. 
Half  way  to  the  table  where  his  mother  sat,  he  reeled  and 
fell  over  on  a  chair,  where  he  lay  with  an  ashen  face,  his 
eyes  mere  slits  in  his  head,  the  upturned  whites  shew- 
ing through.  They  brought  him  whiskey,  and  he  drank 
and  was  recovered.  And  then  they  went  through  to  the 
parlour,  and  opened  the  great  desk  that  stood  in  the 
corner.  It  was  the  first  time  they  had  ever  dared  to 
raise  its  lid.  John  took  up  a  letter  lying  loosely  on  the 
top  of  the  other  papers,  and,  after  a  hasty  glance,  "  This 
settles  it! "  said  he.  It  was  the  note  from  Gourlay's 
banker,  warning  him  that  his  account  was  overdrawn. 

"  God  help  us!  "  cried  ]\Irs.  Gourlay,  and  Janet  began 
to  whimper.  John  slipped  out  of  the  room.  He  was 
still  in  his  stocking-feet,  and  the  women,  dazed  by  this 
sudden  and  appalling  news,  were  scarcely  aware  of  his 
departure. 

He  passed  through  the  kitchen,  and  stood  on  the  step 
of  the  back  door,  looking  out  on  the  quiet  little  paved 
yard.  Everything  there  was  remarkably  still  and  bright. 
It  was  an  early  spring  that  year,  and  the  hot  March  sun 
beat  down  on  him,  paining  his  bleared  and  puffy  eyes. 
The  contrast  between  his  own  lump  of  a  body,  drink- 
dazed,  dull-throbbing,  and  the  warm  bright  day,  came 
in  on  him  with  a  sudden  sinking  of  the  heart,  a  sense 

[301] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GREEN  SHUTTERS 

of  degradation  and  personal  abasement.  He  realised, 
however  obscurely,  that  he  was  an  eyesore  in  nature,  a 
blotch  on  the  surface  of  the  world,  an  offence  to  the 
sweet-breathing  heavens.  And  that  bright  silence  was 
so  strange  and  still.  He  could  have  screamed  to  es- 
cape it. 

The  slow  ticking  of  the  kitchen  clock  seemed  to  beat 
upon  his  raw  brain.  Damn  the  thing,  why  didn't  it  stop 
— with  its  monotonous  tick-tack;  tick-tack;  tick-tack? 
— he  could  feel  it  inside  his  head  where  it  seemed  to 
strike  innumerable  little  blows,  on  a  strained  chord  it 
was  bent  on  snapping. 

He  tiptoed  back  to  the  kitchen  on  noiseless  feet,  and 
cocking  his  ear  to  listen,  he  heard  the  murmur  of 
women's  voices  in  the  parlour.  There  was  a  look  of 
slyness  and  cunning  in  his  face;  and  his  eyes  glittered 
with  desire.  The  whiskey  was  still  on  the  table.  He 
seized  the  bottle  greedily,  and,  tilting  it  up,  let  the  raw 
liquid  gurgle  into  him  like  cooling  water.  It  seemed  to 
flood  his  parched  being  with  a  new  vitality. 

"Oh,  I  doubt  we'll  be  gey  ill-off !  "  he  heard  his 
mother's  whine,  and,  at  that  reminder  of  her  nearness, 
he  checked  the  great  satisfied  breath  he  had  begun  to 
blow.  He  set  the  bottle  on  the  table,  bringing  the  glass 
noiselessly  down  upon  the  wood,  with  a  tense,  unnatural 
precision  possible  only  to  drink-steadied  nerves — a 
steadiness  like  the  humming  top's  whirled  to  its  fastest. 
Then  he  sped  silently  through  the  courtyard  and  locked 
himself  into  the  stable,  chuckling  in  drunken  triumph 
as  he  turned  the  key.  He  pitched  forward  on  a  litter 
of  dirty  straw,  and  in  a  moment,  sleep  came  over  his 
mind  in  a  huge  wave  of  darkness. 

[  302  ] 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-SIX 

An  hour  later  he  woke  from  a  terrible  dream,  flinging 
his  arms  up,  to  ward  off  a  face  that  had  been  pressing  on 
his  own.  Were  the  eyes  that  had  burned  his  brain  still 
glaring  above  him?  He  looked  about  him  in  drunken 
wonder.  From  a  sky-window  a  shaft  of  golden  light 
came  slanting  into  the  loose-box,  living  with  yellow 
motes  in  the  dimness.  The  world  seemed  dead;  he  was 
alone  in  the  silent  building,  and  from  without  there 
was  no  sound.  Then  a  panic  terror  flashed  on  his  mind, 
that  tliose  eyes  had  actually  been  here — and  were  here 
with  him  still — where  he  was  locked  up  with  them 
alone.  He  strained  his  eyeballs  in  a  horrified  stare  at 
vacancy.  Then  he  shut  them  in  terror,  for  why  did  he 
look?  If  he  looked,  the  eyes  might  burn  on  him  out  of 
nothingness.  The  innocent  air  had  become  his  enemy 
— pregnant  with  unseen  terrors  to  glare  at  him.  To 
breathe  it  stifled  him;  each  draught  of  it  was  full  of 
menace.  With  a  shrill  cry  he  dashed  at  the  door,  and 
felt  in  the  clutch  of  his  ghostly  enemy  when  he  failed 
to  open  it  at  once,  breaking  his  nails  on  the  baffling 
lock.  He  mowed  and  chattered  and  stamped,  and  tore 
at  the  lock,  frustrate  in  fear.  At  last  he  was  free!  He 
broke  into  the  kitchen  where  his  mother  sat  weeping — 
she  raised  her  eyes  to  see  a  dishevelled  thing,  with  bits 
of  straw  scattered  on  his  clothes  and  hair. 

"  Mother!  "  he  screamed,  "  Mother!  "  and  stopped 
suddenly,  his  starting  eyes  seeming  to  follow  something 
in  the  room. 

"  What  are  ye  glowering  at,  John?  "  she  wailed. 

"  Thae  damned  e'en,"  he  said  slowly,  "  they're  burn- 
ing my  soul!  Look,  look!  "  he  cried,  clutching  her  thin 
wrist,  "  see,  there,  there! — coming  round  by  the  dresser! 

[  303  ] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GREEN  SHUTTERS 

A-ah ! ''  he  screamed  in  hoarse  execration.  "  Would  ye, 
then?  " — and  he  hurled  a  great  jug  from  the  table  at  the 
pursuing  unseen. 

The  jug  struck  the  yellow  face  of  the  clock,  and  the 
glass  jangled  on  the  floor. 

Mrs.  Gourlay  raised  her  arms,  like  a  gaunt  sibyl,  and 
spoke  to  her  Maker,  quietly,  as  if  He  were  a  man  be- 
fore her  in  the  room.  "  Ruin  and  murder,"  she  said 
slowly;  "  and  madness;  and  death  at  my  nipple  like  a 
child!    When  will  Ye  be  satisfied?  " 

Drucken  Wabster's  wife  spread  the  news,  of  course, 
and  that  night  it  went  humming  through  the  town  that 
young  Gourlay  had  the  horrors,  and  was  throwing  tum- 
blers at  his  mother! 

"  Puir  body!  "  said  the  baker,  in  the  long-drawn  tones 
of  an  infinite  compassion;  "  puir  body!  " 

"  Aye,"  said  Toddle  drily,  "  he'll  be  wanting  to  put  an 
end  to  lier  next,  after  killing  his  faither." 

"  Killing  his  faither?  "  said  the  baker  with  a  quick 
look,  "what  do  you  mean?" 

"Mean?  Ou,  I  just  mean  what  the  doctor  says! 
Gourlay  was  that  mad  at  the  drucken  young  swine  that 
he  got  the  'plexies,  fell  aff  the  ladder,  and  felled  himsoll 
deid!  That's  v/hat  I  mean,  no  less!  "  said  Toddle,  net- 
tled at  the  sharp  question. 

"  Aye  man!  That  accounts  for't,"  said  Tam  Wylie. 
"  It  did  seem  queer  Gourlay 's  dying  the  verra  nicht  the 
prodigal  cam  hame.  He  was  a  heavy  man,  too;  he  would 
come  down  with  an  infernal  thud.  It  seems  uncanny, 
though,  it  seems  uncanny." 

"  Strange!  "  murmured  another,  and  they  looked  at 
each  other  in  silent  wonder. 

[304] 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-SIX 

"But  will  this  be  true,  think  ye?"  said  Brodie. 
"  About  tlie  horrors,  I  mean.  Did  he  throw  the  tumbler 
at  his  mother?  " 

"  Lord,  it's  true !  "  said  Sandy  Toddle.  "  I  gaed  into 
the  kitchen,  on  purpose,  to  make  sure  o'  the  matter  with 
my  own  eyes.  I  let  on  I  wanted  to  borrow  auld  Gour- 
lay's  key-hole  saw — I  can  tell  ye  he  had  a'  his  orders — 
his  tool-chest's  the  finest  I  ever  saw  in  my  life!  I  mean 
to  bid  for  some  o'  yon  when  the  rowp  comes.  Weel,  as 
I  was  saying,  I  let  on  I  wanted  the  wee  saw,  and  went 
into  the  kitchen  one  end's  errand.  The  tumbler 
(Johnny  Coe  says  it  was  a  bottle,  however;  but  I'm  no 
avised  o'  that — I  spiered  Webster's  wife,  and  I  think 
my  details  are  correct) — the  tumbler  went  flying  past 
his  mother,  and  smashed  the  face  o'  the  eight-day.  It 
happened  about  the  mid-hour  o'  the  day.  The  clock  had 
stoppit,  I  observed,  at  three  and  a  half  minutes  to  the 
twelve." 

"  Hi!  "  cried  the  Deacon,  "  it'th  a  pity  auld  Gourlay 
wathna  alive  thith  day!  " 

"  Faith,  aye,"  cried  Wylie.  "  He  would  have  sorted 
him!    He  would  have  trimmed  the  young  ruffian! " 

"  No  doubt,"  said  the  Deacon  gravely;  "  no  doubt. 
But  it  wath  scarcely  that  I  wath  thin-king  of.  Yah! 
he  grinned,  "  thith  would  have  been  a  thlap  in  the  face 
till  him! " 

Wylie  looked  at  him  for  awhile  with  a  white  scunner 
in  his  face.  He  wore  the  musing  and  disgusted  look  of 
a  man  whose  wounded  mind  retires  within  itself,  to 
brood  over  a  sight  of  unnatural  cruelty.  The  Deacon 
grew  uncomfortable  beneath  his  sideward,  estimating 
eye. 

[  305] 


5> 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GREEN  SHUTTERS 

"  Deacon  Allardyce,  your  heart's  black-rotten,"  he 
said  at  last. 

The  Deacon  blinked  and  was  silent.  Tarn  had 
summed  him  up.    There  was  no  appeal. 

"  John,  dear,"  said  his  mother  that  evejiing,  "  we'll 
take  the  big  sofa  into  our  bedroom,  and  make  up  a  grand 
bed  for  ye,  and  then  we'll  be  company  to  one  another. 
Eh,  dear?  "  she  pleaded.  "  Winna  that  be  a  fine  way? 
When  you  have  Janet  and  me  beside  you,  you  winna 
be  feared  o'  ainy thing  coming  near  you.  You  should 
gang  to  bed  early,  dear.  A  sleep  would  restore  your 
mind." 

"I  don't  mean  to  go  to  bed,"  he  said  slowly.  He 
spoke  staringly,  with  the  same  fixity  in  his  voice  and 
gaze.  There  was  neither  rise  nor  fall  in  his  voice,  only 
a  dull  level  of  intensity. 

"  You  don't  mean  to  go  to  bed,  John!  What  for,  dear? 
Man,  a  sleep  would  calm  your  mind  for  ye." 

"  Na-a-a!  "  he  smiled,  and  shook  his  head  like  a  cun- 
ning madman,  who  had  detected  her  trying  to  get  round 
him.  "  Na-a-a!  No  sleep  for  me — no  sleep  for  me!  I'm 
feared  I  would  see  the  red  e'en,"  he  whispered,  "  the  red 
e'en;  coming  at  me  out  o'  the  darkness — the  darkness!  " 
he  nodded,  staring  at  her  and  breathing  the  word,  "  the 
darkness!  the  darkness!  The  darkness  is  the  warst, 
mother,"  he  added  in  his  natural  voice,  leaning  forward 
as  if  he  explained  some  simple  curious  thing  of  every 
day.  "  The  darkness  is  the  warst,  you  know.  I've  seen 
them  in  the  broad  licht,  but  in  the  lobby,"  he  whis- 
pered hoarsely;  "  in  the  lobby  when  it  was  dark;  in  the 
lobby  they  were  terrible.    Just  twa  e'en,  and  they  aye 

[  306  ] 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-SIX 

keep  thegither,  though  they're  aye  moving.  That's  why 
I  canna  pin  them.  And  it's  because  I  ken  they're  aye 
watching  me,  watching  me,  watching  me,  that  I  get 
so  feared.  They're  red,"  he  nodded  and  whispered, 
"  they're  red  .  .  .  they're  red."  His  mouth  gaped  in 
horror,  and  he  stared  as  if  he  saw  them  now. 

He  had  boasted  long  ago  of  being  able  to  see  things 
inside  his  head;  in  his  drunken  hysteria  he  was  to  see 
them  always.  The  vision  he  beheld  against  the  darkness 
of  his  mind,  projected  itself,  and  glared  at  him.  He  was 
pursued  by  a  spectre  in  his  own  brain,  and  for  that 
reason  there  was  no  escape.  Wherever  he  went  it  fol- 
lowed him. 

"  Oh  man,  John,"  wailed  his  mother,  "  what  are  ye 
feared  for  your  faither's  e'en  for?  He  wouldna  perse- 
cute his  boy." 

"  Would  he  no  ?  "  he  said  slowly.  "  You  ken  yoursell 
that  he  never  liked  me!  And  naebody  could  stand  his 
glower.  Oh,  he  was  a  terrible  man,  my  faither!  You 
could  feel  the  passion  in  him  when  he  stood  still.  He 
could  throw  himsel  at  ye  without  moving.  And  he's 
throwing  himsel  at  me  frae  beyond  the  grave." 

Mrs.  Gourlay  beat  her  desperate  hands.  Her  feeble 
remonstrance  was  a  snowflake  on  a  hill,  to  the  dull  in- 
tensity of  this  conviction.  So  colossal  was  it  that  it 
gripped  herself,  and  she  glanced  dreadfully  across  her 
shoulder.  But,  in  spite  of  her  fears,  she  must  plead 
with  him  to  save. 

"  Johnnie  dear,"  she  wept  passionately,  "  there's  no 
e'en!    It's  just  the  drink  gars  you  think  sae." 

"  No,"  he  said  dully;  "  the  drink's  my  refuge.  It's  a 
kind  thing,  drink.    It  helps  a  body." 

[307] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GEEEN  SHUTTERS 

"  But,  John,  nobody  believes  in  these  things  now-a- 
days.  It's  just  fancy  in  you.  I  wonder  at  a  college- 
bred  man  like  you  giving  heed  to  a  wheen  non- 
sense! " 

"  Ye  ken  yoursell  it  was  a  by-word  in  the  place  that  he 
would  haunt  the  House  with  the  Green  Shutters." 

"  God  help  me!  "  cried  Mrs.  Gourlay;  "  what  am  I  to 
do?" 

She  piled  up  a  great  fire  in  the  parlour,  and  the  three 
poor  creatures  gathered  round  it  for  the  night.  (They 
were  afraid  to  sit  in  the  kitchen  of  an  evening,  for  even 
the  silent  furniture  seemed  to  talk  of  the  murder  it  had 
witnessed.)  John  was  on  a  carpet  stool  by  his  mother's 
feet,  his  head  resting  on  her  knee. 

They  heard  the  rattle  of  Wilson's  brake  as  it  swung 
over  the  town-head  from  Auchterwheeze,  and  the  laugh- 
ter of  its  jovial  crew.  They  heard  the  town  clock  chim- 
ing the  lonesome  passage  of  the  hours.  A  dog  was  bark- 
ing in  the  street. 

Gradually  all  other  sounds  died  away. 

"  ]\Iother,"  said  John,  "  lay  your  hand  alang  my 
shouther,  touching  my  neck.  I  want  to  be  sure  that 
you're  near  me." 

"  I'll  do  that,  my  bairn,"  said  his  mother.  And  soon 
he  was  asleep. 

Janet  was  reading  a  novel.  The  children  had  their 
mother's  silly  gift,  a  gift  of  the  weak-minded,  of  for- 
getting their  own  duties  and  their  own  sorrows,  in  a 
vacant  interest  which  they  found  in  books.  She  had 
wrapped  a  piece  of  coarse  red  flannel  round  her  head 
to  comfort  a  swollen  jaw,  and  her  face  appeared  from 
within  like  a  tallowy  oval. 

[308] 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-SIX 


"  I  didna  get  that  story  finished,"  said  Mrs.  Gourlay 
vacantly,  staring  at  the  fire  open-mouthed,  her  mutch- 
strings  dangling.  It  was  the  remark  of  a  stricken  mind 
that  speaks  vacantly  of  anything.  "  Does  Herbert  Mont- 
gomery marry  Sir  James's  niece?" 

"  No,"  said  Janet,  "  he's  killed  at  the  war.  It's  a  gey 
pity  of  him,  isn't  it? — Oh,  what's  that?  " 

It  was  John  talking  in  his  sleep. 

"  I  have  killed  my  faither,"  he  said  slowly,  pausing 
long  between  every  phrase:  "I  have  killed  my  faither 
...  I  have  killed  my  faither.  And  he's  foil-owing  me, 
.  .  .  he's  foil-owing  me  .  .  .  he's  foil-owing  me."  It 
was  the  voice  of  a  thing,  not  a  man.  It  swelled  and 
dwelt  on  the  "  follow,"  as  if  the  horror  of  the  pursuit 
made  it  moan.  "  He's  foil-owing  me  .  .  .  he's  foll- 
owing me  .  .  .  he's  foil-owing  me.  A  face  like  a  dark 
mist — and  e'en  like  hell.  Oh,  they're  foil-owing  me 
.  .  .  they're  foil-owing  me  .  .  .  they're  foil-owing 
me!  "  His  voice  seemed  to  come  from  an  infinite  dis- 
tance.   It  was  like  a  lost  soul  moaning  in  a  solitude. 

The  dog  was  barking  in  the  street.  A  cry  of  the 
night  came  from  far  away. 

That  voice  was  as  if  a  corpse  opened  its  lips,  and  told 
of  horrors  beyond  the  grave.  It  brought  the  other  world 
into  the  homely  room,  and  made  it  all  demoniac.  The 
women  felt  the  presence  of  the  unknown.  It  was  their 
own  flesh  and  blood  that  spoke  the  words,  and  by  their 
own  quiet  hearth.  But  hell  seemed  with  them  in  the 
room. 

Mrs.  Gourlay  drew  back  from  John's  head  on  her 
lap,  as  from  something  monstrous  and  unholy.  But 
he  moaned  in  deprivation,  craving  her  support,  and  she 

[  309  ] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GREEN  SHUTTERS 

edged  nearer  to  supply  his  need.    Possessed  with  a  devil 
or  no,  he  was  her  son. 

"  Mother!  "  gasped  Janet  suddenly,  the  white  circles 
of  her  eyes  staring  from  the  red  flannel,  her  voice  hoarse 
with  a  new  fear,  "Mother,  suppose — suppose  he  said 
that  before  anybody  else!  " 

"  Don't  mention't,"  cried  her  mother  with  sudden  pas- 
sion; "  how  daur  ye,  how  daur  ye?  My  God!  "  she  broke 
down  and  wept,  "  they  would  hang  him,  so  they  would; 
they  would  hang  my  boy;  they  would  take  and  hang 
my  boy! " 

They  stared  at  each  other  wildly.  John  slept,  his 
head  twisted  over  on  his  mother's  knee,  his  eyes  sunken, 
his  mouth  wide  open. 

"  Mother,"  Janet  whispered,  "  you  must  send  him 
away." 

"  I  have  only  three  pounds  in  the  world,"  said  Mrs. 
Gourlay — and  she  put  her  hand  to  her  breast  where  it 
was,  but  winced  as  if  a  pain  had  bitten  her.    • 

"  Send  him  away  wi't,"  said  Janet.  "  The  furniture 
may  bring  something.    And  you  and  me  can  aye  thole." 

In  the  morning  Mrs.  Gourlay  brought  two  greasy 
notes  to  the  table,  and  placed  them  in  her  son's  slack 
hand.  He  was  saner  now;  he  had  slept  off  his  drunken 
madness  through  the  night. 

"  John,"  she  said  in  pitiful  appeal,  "  you  maunna  stay 
here,  laddie.  Ye'll  gie  up  the  drink  when  you're  away 
— will  ye  na? — and  then  thae  e'en  ye're  sae  feared  of 
'11  no  trouble  you  ony  mair.  Gang  to  Glasgow  and  see 
the  lawyer  folk  about  the  bond.  And,  John  dear,"  she 
pleaded,  "  if  there's  nothing  left  for  us,  you'll  try  to 
work  for  Janet  and  me,  will  ye  no?   You've  a  grand  edu- 

[  310  ] 


CHAPTER  TWENTY- SIX 

cation,  and  you'll  surely  get  a  place  as  a  teacher  or  some- 
thing; I'm  sure  you  would  make  a  grand  teacher.  Ye 
wouldna  like  to  think  of  your  mother  trailing  every 
week  to  the  like  of  Wilson  for  an  awmous,  streeking 
out  her  auld  hand  for  charity.  The  folk  would  stand 
in  their  doors  to  look  at  me,  man — they  would  that — 
they  would  cry  ben  to  each  other  to  come  oot  and  see 
Gourlay's  wife  gaun  slinkin  doon  the  brae.  Doon  the 
brae  it  would  be,"  she  repeated,  "  doon  the  brae  it  would 
be  " — and  her  mind  drifted  away  on  the  sorrowful  fu- 
ture which  her  fear  made  so  vivid  and  real.  It  was  only 
John's  going  that  roused  her. 

Thomas  Brodie,  glowering  abroad  from  a  shop  door 
festooned  in  boots,  his  leather  apron  in  front,  and  his 
thumbs  in  the  armholes  of  his  waistcoat,  as  befitted  an 
important  man,  saw  young  Gourlay  pass  the  Cross  with 
his  bag  in  his  hand,  and  dwindle  up  the  road  to  the 
station. 

"  Where's  he  off  to  now?  "  he  muttered,  "  there's  some- 
thing at  the  boddom  o'  this,  if  a  body  could  find  it  out!  " 


[311] 


XXVII 

When  John  had  gone  his  mother  roused  herself  to  a 
feverish  industry.  Even  in  the  early  days  of  her 
strength,  she  had  never  been  so  busy  in  her  home.  But 
her  work  was  aimless  and  to  no  purpose.  When  tidying 
she  would  take  a  cup  without  its  saucer  from  the  table, 
and  set  off  with  it  through  the  room,  but  stopping  sud- 
denly in  the  middle  of  the  floor,  would  fall  into  a  muse 
with  the  dish  in  her  hand;  coming  to  herself  long  after- 
wards to  ask  vaguely,  "  What's  this  cup  for?  .  .  .  Janet, 
lassie,  what  was  it  I  was  doing?  "  Her  energy,  and  its 
frustration,  had  the  same  reason.  The  burden  on  her 
mind  constantly  impelled  her  to  do  something  to  escape 
from  it — and  the  same  burden  paralysed  her  mind  in 
everything  she  did.  So  with  another  of  her  vacant 
whims.  Every  morning  she  rose  at  an  unearthly  hour, 
to  fish  out  of  old  closets  rag-bags  bellied  big  with 
the  odds  and  ends  of  thirty  years'  assemblage.  "  I'll 
make  a  patch-work  quilt  o'thir!  "  she  explained  with 
a  foolish,  eager  smile — and  she  spent  hours  snatching 
up  rags  and  vainly  trying  to  match  them.  But  the 
quilt  made  no  progress.  She  would  look  at  a  patch 
for  a  while,  with  her  head  on  one  side,  and  pat  it  all 
over  with  restless  hands;  then  she  would  turn  it  round, 
to  see  if  it  would  look  better  that  way,  only  to  tear 
it  off  when  it  was  half  sewn,  to  try  another  and  yet 
another.    Often  she  would  forget  the  work  on  her  lap, 

[312] 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-SEVE:N" 

and  stare  across  the  room,  open-mouthed;  her  fingers 
plucking  at  her  withered  throat.  Janet  became  afraid 
of  her  mother. 

Once  she  saw  her  smiling  to  herself,  when  she  thought 
nobody  was  watching  her,  an  uncanny  smile  as  of 
one  who  hugged  a  secret  to  her  breast — a  secret  that, 
eluding  others,  would  enable  its  holder  to  elude  them 
too. 

"What  can  she  have  to  laugh  at?"  Janet  wondered. 

At  times,  the  haze  that  seemed  gathering  round  Mrs. 
Gourlay's  mind  would  be  dispelled  by  sudden  rushes  of 
fear,  when  she  would  whiniper  lest  her  son  be  hanged, 
or  herself  come  on  the  parish  in  her  old  age.  But  that 
was  rarely.  Her  brain  was  mercifully  dulled,  and  her 
days  were  passed  in  a  restless  vacancy. 

She  was  sittino^  with  the  rasjs  scattered  round  her 
when  John  walked  in  on  the  evening  of  the  third  day. 
There  were  rags  everywhere;  on  the  table,  and  all 
about  the  kitchen;  she  sat  in  their  midst  like  a  witch 
among  the  autumn  leaves.  When  she  looked  towards 
his  entrance  the  smell  of  drink  was  wafted  from  the 
door. 

"John!"  she  panted  in  surprise,  "John,  did  ye  not 
go  to  Glasgow,  boy?  " 

"  Aye,"  he  said  slowly,  "  T  gaed  to  Glasgow." 

"And  the  bond,  John? — did  ye  speir  about  the 
bond?" 

"  Aye,"  he  said,  "  I  spiered  about  the  bond.     The 
whole  house  is  sunk  in't." 

"Oh!"  she  gasped,  and  the  whole  world  seemed  to 
go  from  beneath  her,  so  weak  did  she  feel  through  her 
limbs. 

[313] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GEEEN  SHUTTEKS 

"  John,"  she  said  after  a  while,  "  did  ye  no  try  to  get 
something  to  do,  that  you  might  help  me  and  Janet  now 
we're  helpless?  " 

"  No,"  he  said,  "  for  the  e'en  wouldna  let  me.  Meht 
and  day  they  follow  me  a' where;  nicht  and  day." 

"Are  they  following  ye  yet,  John?"  she  whispered, 
leaning  forward  seriously.  She  did  not  try  to  disabuse 
him  now;  she  accepted  what  he  said.  Her  mind  was 
on  a  level  with  his  own.  "  Are  they  following  ye  yet?  " 
she  asked  with  large  eyes  of  sympathy  and  awe. 

"  Aye,  and  waur  than  ever,  too.  They're  getting  red- 
der and  redder.  It's  not  a  dull  red,"  he  said,  with  a 
faint  return  of  his  old  interest  in  the  curious  physical; 
"  it's  a  gleaming  red.  They  lowe.  A'  last  nicht  they 
wouldna  let  me  sleep.  There  was  nae  gas  in  my  room, 
and  when  the  candle  went  out  I  could  see  them  every- 
where. When  I  looked  to  one  corner  o'  the  room,  they 
were  there;  and  when  I  looked  to  another  corner,  they 
were  there,  too;  glowering  at  me;  glowering  at  me  in  the 
darkness;  glowering  at  me.  Ye  mind  what  a  glower  he 
had!  I  hid  from  them  ablow  the  claes,  but  they  fol- 
lowed me — thev  were  burning  in  my  brain.  So  I  gaed 
oot  and  stood  by  a  lamp-post  for  company.  But  a  con- 
stable moved  me  on;  he  said  I  was  drunk  because  I  mut- 
tered to  mysell.  But  I  wasna  drunk  then,  mother;  I 
wa-as  not.  So  I  walkit  on,  and  on,  and  on,  the  whole 
nicht — ^but  I  ave  keepit  to  the  lamp-posts  for  company. 
And  than  when  the  public  houses  opened,  I  gaed  in 
and  drank  and  drank.  I  didna  like  the  drink,  for  whis- 
key has  no  taste  to  me  now.     But  it  helps  ye  to  forget. 

"  "Mother? "  he  went  on  complainingly,  "  is  it  no 
queer  that  a  pair  of  e'en  should  follow  a  man?    Just  a 

[314] 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-SEYEIT 

pair  of  e'en!  It  never  happened  to  onybody  but  me," 
he  said  dully;  "  never  to  onybody  but  nie." 

His  mother  was  panting  open-mouthed,  as  if  she 
choked  for  air,  both  liands  clutching  at  her  bosom. 
"  Aye,"  she  whispered,  "  it's  queer,"  and  kept  on  gasp- 
ing at  intervals  with  staring  eyes,  "  it's  gey  queer;  it's 
gey  queer;  it's  gey  queer." 

She  took  up  the  needle  once  more  and  tried  to  sew, 
but  her  hand  was  trembling  so  violently  that  she  pricked 
the  left  forefinger  which  upheld  her  work.  She  was 
content  thereafter  to  make  loose  stabs  at  the  cloth,  with 
a  result  that  she  made  great  stitches  which  drew  her 
seam  together  in  a  pucker.  Vacantly  she  tried  to  smooth 
them  out,  stroking  them  over  with  her  hand,  constantly 
stroking  and  to  no  purpose.  John  watched  the  aimless 
work  with  dull  and  heavy  eyes. 

For  a  while  there  was  silence  in  the  kitchen.  Janet 
was  coughing  in  the  room  above. 

"  There's  just  ae  thing'll  end  it!  "  said  John.  "  Moth- 
er, give  me  three  shillings." 

It  was  not  a  request,  and  not  a  demand;  it  was  the 
dull  statement  of  a  need.  Yet  the  need  appeared  so  re- 
lentless, uttered  in  the  set  fixity  of  his  impassive  voice, 
that  she  could  not  gainsay  it.  She  felt  that  this  was  not 
merely  her  son  making  a  demand;  it  w^as  a  compulsion 
on  him  greater  than  himself. 

"  There's  the  money! "  she  said,  clinking  it  down  on 
the  table,  and  flashed  a  resentful  smile  at  him,  close 
upon  the  brink  of  tears. 

She  had  a  fleeting  anger.  It  was  scarcely  at  him, 
though;  it  was  at  the  fate  that  drove  him.  Nor  was  it 
for  herself,  for  her  own  mood  was,  "  Well,  well;  let  it 

[  315  ] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GREEN  SHUTTERS 

gang."  But  she  had  a  sense  of  unfairness,  and  a  flicker 
of  quite  impersonal  resentment,  that  fate  should  wring 
the  last  few  shillings  from  a  poor  being.  It  wasna  fair. 
She  had  the  emotion  of  it;  and  it  spoke  in  the  strange 
look  at  her  son,  and  in  the  smiling  flush  with  the  tears 
behind  it.    Then  she  sank  into  apathy. 

John  took  up  the  money  and  went  out,  heedless  of 
his  mother  where  she  sat  by  the  table — he  had  a  doom 
on  him  and  could  see  nothing,  that  did  not  lie  within 
his  path.  Nor  did  she  take  any  note  of  his  going;  she 
was  callous.  The  tie  between  them  was  being  annulled 
by  misery.  She  was  ceasing  to  be  his  mother,  he  to  be 
her  son;  they  were  not  younger  and  older,  they  were 
tlie  equal  victims  of  necessity.  Fate  set  each  of  them 
apart  to  dree  a  separate  weird. 

In  a  house  of  long  years  of  misery,  the  weak  become 
callous  to  their  dearest's  agony.  The  hard  strong  char- 
acters are  kindest  in  the  end;  they  will  help  while  their 
hearts  are  breaking.  But  the  weak  fall  asunder  at  the 
last.  It  was  not  that  Mrs.  Gourlay  was  thinking  of  her- 
self, rather  than  of  him.  She  was  stunned  by  fate — as 
was  he — and  could  think  of  nothing. 

Ten  minutes  later  John  came  out  of  the  Black  Bull 
with  a  bottle  of  whiskey. 

It  was  a  mellow  evening,  one  of  those  evenings  when 
Barbie,  the  mean  and  dull,  is  transfigured  to  a  gem-like 
purity,  and  catches  a  radiance.  There  was  a  dreaming 
sky  above  the  town,  and  its  light  less  came  to  the  earth 
tlian  was  on  it,  shining  in  every  path  with  a  gracious 
immanence.  John  came  on  through  the  glow  with  his 
burden  undisguised,  wrapped  in  a  tissue  paper  which 
shewed  its  outlines.     He  stared  right  before  him  like 

[316] 


CHAPTER   TWENTY-SEVEN 

a  man  walking  in  his  sleep,  and  never  once  looked  to 
either  side.  At  word  of  his  coming  the  doors  were  filled 
with  mutches  and  bald  heads,  keeking  by  the  jambs  to 
get  a  look.  Many  were  indecent  in  their  haste,  not  wait- 
ing till  he  passed  ere  they  peeped — which  was  their 
usual  way.  Some  even  stood  away  out  in  front  of  their 
doors  to  glower  at  him  advancing,  turning  slowly  with 
him  as  he  passed,  and  glowering  behind  him  as  he  went. 
They  saw  they  might  do  so  with  impunity;  that  he  did 
not  see  them,  but  walked  like  a  man  in  a  dream.  He 
passed  up  the  street  and  through  the  Square,  beneath  a 
hundred  eyes,  the  sun  shining  softly  round  him.  Every 
eye  followed  till  he  disappeared  through  his  own  door. 

He  went  through  the  kitchen,  where  his  mother  sat, 
carrying  the  bottle  openly,  and  entered  the  parlour 
without  speaking.  He  came  back  and  asked  her  for  the 
corkscrew,  but  when  she  said  "Eh?"  with  a  vague 
wildness  in  her  manner,  and  did  not  seem  to  understand, 
he  went  and  got  it  for  himself.  She  continued  making 
stabs  at  her  cloth  and  smoothing  out  the  puckers  in  her 
seam. 

John  was  heard  moving  in  the  parlour.  There  was 
the  sharp  phmJc  of  a  cork  being  drawn,  followed  by 
a  clink  of  glass.  And  then  came  a  heavy  thud  like  a 
fall. 

To  Mrs.  Gourlay  the  sounds  meant  nothing;  slic 
heard  them  with  her  ear,  not  her  mind.  The  world 
around  her  had  retreated  to  a  hazy  distance,  so  that  it 
had  no  meaning.  She  would  have  gazed  vaguely  at  a 
shell  about  to  burst  beside  her. 

In  the  evening,  Janet,  who  had  been  in  bed  all  the 
afternoon,  came  down  and  lit  the  lamp  for  her  mother. 

[  317  ] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GREEN  SHUTTERS 

It  was  a  large  lamp  which  Gourlay  had  bought,  and  it 
shed  a  rich  light  through  the  room. 

"  I  heard  John  come  in,"  she  said,  turning  wearily- 
round;  "  but  I  was  too  ill  to  come  down  and  ask  what 
had  happened.    Where  is  he  ?  " 

"John?"  questioned  her  mother,  "John?  .  .  .  Ou, 
a3-e!  "  she  panted,  vaguely  recalling,  "  Ou,  aye!  I  think 
— I  think  ...  he  gaed  ben  the  parlour." 

"  The  parlour!  "  cried  Janet,  "  but  he  must  be  in  the 
dark!    And  he  canna  thole  the  darkness!  " 

"  John ! "  she  cried,  going  to  the  parlour  door, 
"John!" 

There  was  a  silence  of  the  grave. 

She  lit  a  candle,  and  went  into  the  room.  And  then 
she  gave  a  squeal  like  a  rabbit  in  a  dog's  jaws. 

Mrs.  Gourlay  dragged  her  gaunt  limbs  wearily  across 
tlie  floor.  By  the  wavering  light,  which  shook  in  Janet's 
liand,  she  saw  her  son  lying  dead  across  the  sofa.  The 
whiskey-bottle  on  the  table  was  half  empty,  and  of  a 
smaller  bottle  beside  it  he  had  drunk  a  third.  He 
had  taken  all  that  whiskey  that  he  might  deaden  his 
mind  to  the  horror  of  swallowing  the  poison.  His  legs 
had  slipped  to  the  floor  when  he  died,  but  his  body  was 
lying  back  across  the  couch,  his  mouth  open,  his  eyes 
staring  horridly  up.  They  were  not  the  eyes  of  the 
quiet  dead,  but  bulged  in  frozen  fear,  as  if  his  father's 
eyes  had  watched  him  from  aloft  while  he  died. 

"  There's  twa  thirds  of  the  poison  left,"  commented 
Mrs.  Gourlay. 

"  Mother!  "  Janet  screamed,  and  shook  her.  "  Moth- 
er, John's  deid!  John's  deid.  Don't  ye  see  John's 
deid?  " 

[318] 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-SEVEN 

"  Aye,  he's  deid,"  said  Mrs.  Gourlay,  staring.  "  He 
winna  be  hanged  now!  " 

"  Mother! ''  cried  Janet,  desperate  before  this  apathy, 
"what  shall  we  do?  What  shall  we  do?  Shall  I  run 
and  bring  the  neebours  ?  " 

"  The  neebours!  "  said  Mrs.  Gourlay,  rousing  herself 
wildly.  "  The  neebours!  What  have  we  to  do  with  the 
neebours?  We  are  by  ourselves — the  Gourlays  whom 
God  has  cursed;  we  can  have  no  neebours.  Come  ben 
the  house  and  I'll  tell  ye  something,"  she  whispered 
wildly.  "  Aye,"  she  nodded,  smiling  with  mad  signifi- 
cance, "  I'll  tell  ye  something  .  .  .  I'll  tell  ye  some- 
thing,'^ and  she  dragged  Janet  to  the  kitchen. 

Janet's  heart  was  rent  for  her  brother,  but  the  frenzy 
on  her  mother  killed  sorrow  with  a  new  fear. 

"Janet!  "  smiled  Mrs.  Gourlay,  with  insane  soft  in- 
terest, "  Janet!  D'ye  mind  yon  nicht  langsyne  when 
your  faither  came  in  wi'  a  terrible  look  in  his  e'en,  and 
struck  me  in  the  breist?  Aye,"  she  whispered  hoarsely, 
staring  at  the  fire,  "  he  struck  me  in  the  breist.  But  I 
didna  ken  what  it  was  for,  Janet  .  .  .  No,"  she  shook 
her  head,  "  he  never  telled  me  what  it  was  for." 

"  Aye,  mother,"  whispered  .Janet,  "  I  have  mind  o't." 

"  Weel,  an  abscess  o'  some  kind  formed — I  kenna  weel 
what  it  was — ^but  it  gathered  and  broke,  and  gathered 
and  broke,  till  my  breist's  near  eaten  awa  wi't.  Look!  " 
she  cried,  tearing  open  her  bosom,  and  Janet's  head 
flung  back  in  horror  and  disgust. 

"Oh,  mother!"  she  panted,  "was  it  that  that  the 
wee  clouts  were  for?  " 

"  Aye,  it  was  that,"  said  her  mother.  **  Mony  a  clout 
I  had  to  wash,  and  monv  a  nicht  I  sat  lonely  by  mysell, 

[319] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GREEN  SHUTTERS 

plaistering  my  withered  breist.  But  I  never  let  ony- 
body  ken,"  she  added  with  pride;  "  na-a-a;  I  never  let 
onybody  ken.  When  your  faither  nipped  me  wi'  his 
tongue,  it  nipped  me  wi'  its  pain,  and,  woman,  it  con- 
soled me.  '  Aye,  aye,'  I  used  to  think;  '  jibe  awa,  jibe 
awa;  but  I  hae  a  freend  in  my  breist  that'll  end  it  some 
day.'  I  likit  to  keep  it  to  mysell.  When  it  bit  me  it 
seemed  to  whisper  I  had  a  fi-eend  that  nane  o'  them 
kenned  o' — a  freend  that  would  deliver  me!  The  mair 
he  badgered  me,  the  closer  I  hugged  it;  and  when  my 
he'rt  was  br'akin  I  enjoyed  the  pain  o't." 

"  Oh,  my  poor,  poor  mother!  "  cried  Janet  with  a 
bursting  sob,  her  eyes  raining  hot  tears.  Her  very  body 
seemed  to  feel  compassion;  it  quivered  and  crept  near, 
as  though  it  would  brood  over  her  mother  and  protect 
her.  She  raised  the  poor  hand  and  kissed  it,  and  fondled 
it  between  her  own. 

But  her  mother  had  forgotten  the  world  in  one  of  her 
wild  lapses,  and  was  staring  fixedly. 

"  I'll  no  lang  be  a  burden  to  onybody,"  she  said  to 
herself.  "  It  should  sune  be  wearing  to  a  held  now.  But 
I  thought  of  something  the  day  John  gaed  away.  Aye, 
T  thought  of  something,"  she  said  vaguely.  "Janet, 
what  was  it  I  was  thinking  of?  " 

"  I  dinna  ken,"  whispered  Janet. 

"  I  was  thinking  of  something!  "  her  mother  mused. 
Her  voice  all  through  was  a  far-off  voice,  remote  from 
understanding.  "  Yes,  I  remember.  Ye're  young,  Jen- 
ny, and  you  learned  the  dressmaking — do  ye  think  ye 
could  sew,  or  something,  to  keep  a  bit  garret  owre  my 
heid  till  I  dee?  Aye,  it  was  that  I  was  thinking  of — 
though  it  doesna  matter  much  now. — Eh,  Jenny?    I'll 

[  320  ] 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-SEVEN 

no  bother  you  for  verra  lang.  But  I'll  no  gang  on 
the  parish,"  she  said  in  a  passionless  voice,  "  I'll  no 
gang  on  the  parish. — ^I'm  Miss  Kichmond  o'  Tenshilling- 
land." 

She  had  no  interest  in  her  own  suggestion.  It  was  an 
idea  that  had  flitted  through  her  mind  before,  which 
came  back  to  her  now  in  feeble  recollection.  She 
seemed  not  to  wait  for  an  answer,  to  have  forgotten  what 
she  said. 

*'  Oh,  mother,"  cried  Janet,  "  there's  a  curse  on  us 
all !  I  would  work  my  fingers  raw  for  ye  if  I  could,  but 
I  canna,"  she  screamed,  "  I  canna,  I  canna!  My  lungs 
are  bye  wi't.  On  Tuesday  in  Skeighan  the  doctor  telled 
me  I  would  soon  be  deid — he  didna  say't,  but  fine  I 
saw  what  he  was  hinting.  He  advised  me  to  gang  to 
Ventnor  in  the  Isle  o'  Wight,"  she  added  wanly,  "  as  if  I 
could  gang  to  the  Isle  o'  Wight.  I  cam  hame  trembling 
and  wanted  to  tell  ye,  but  when  I  cam  in  ye  were  ta'en 
up  wi'  John,  and,  '  Oh,  lassie,'  said  you,  '  dinna  bother 
me  wi'  your  complaints  enow.'  I  was  hurt  at  that,  and 
*  Well,  well,'  I  thocht,  *  if  she  doesna  want  to  hear,  I'll 
no  tell  her! '  I  was  huffed  at  ye.  And  then  mv  faither 
came  in,  and  ye  ken  what  happened.  I  hadna  the  heart 
to  speak  o't  after  that;  I  didna  seem  to  care.  I  ken 
what  it  is  to  nurse  daith  in  my  breist  wi'  pride,  too, 
mother,"  she  went  on.  "Ye  never  cared  verra  much 
for  me,  it  was  John  was  your  favourite.  I  used  to  be 
angry  because  you  nedected  mv  illness,  and  I  never 
telled  you  how  heavily  I  boasted  blood.  '  She'll  be  sorry 
for  this  when  I'm  deid,'  I  used  to  think — and  I  hoped 
you  would  be.  I  had  a  kind  of  pride  in  saying  nothing. 
But,  oh,  mother,  I  didna  ken  you  were  just  the  same,  I 

[  331  ] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GREEN  SHUTTERS 

didna  ken  you  were  just  the  same."  She  looked.  Her 
mother  was  not  listening. 

Suddenly  Mrs.  Gourlay  screamed  with  wild  laughter, 
and,  laughing,  eyed  with  mirthless  merriment,  the  look 
of  horror  with  which  Janet  was  regarding  her.  "  Ha, 
ha,  ha!  "  she  screamed,  "  it's  to  be  a  clean  sweep  o' 
the  Gourlay s!  Ha,  ha,  ha!  it's  to  be  a  clean  sweep  o'  the 
Gourlay s!  " 

There  is  nothing  uglier  in  life  than  a  woman's  cruel 
laugh,  but  Mrs.  Gourlay's  laugh  was  more  than  cruel, 
it  was  demoniac;  the  skirl  of  a  human  being  carried  by 
misery  beyond  the  confines  of  humanity.  Janet  stared 
at  her  in  speechless  fear. 

"  Mother,"  she  whispered  at  last,  "  what  are  we  to 
do?" 

"  There's  twa  thirds  of  the  poison  left,"  said  Mrs. 
Gourlay. 

"  Mother!  "  cried  Janet. 

"  Gourlay's  dochter  may  gans:  on  the  parish  if  she 
likes,  but  his  wife  never  will.  Ynn.  mav  honst  vourself 
to  death  in  a  garret  in  the  poorhouse,  but  I'll  follow  my 
bov." 

The  sudden  picture  of  her  own  lonely  death  as  a 
pauper  among  strangers,  when  her  mother  and  brother 
should  be  gone,  was  so  appalling  to  Janet,  that  to  die 
with  her  mother  seemed  pleasanter.  She  could  not  bear 
to  be  left  alone. 

"  Mother,"  she  cried  in  a  frenzy,  "  I'll  keep  ye  com- 
pany! " 

"  Let  us  read  a  Chapter,"  said  Mrs.  Gourlav. 

She  took  down  the  big  Bible,  and  "the  thirteent' 
Chapter  o*  first  Corinthians,"  she  announced  in  a  loud 

[  323] 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-SEVEN 

voice,  as  if  giving  it  out  from  the  pulpit,  "  the  thirteent' 
— o'  the  first  Coriiitliians  ": 

"  *  Though  I  speak  with  the  tongues  of  men  and  of 
ajigels,  and  have  not  charity,  I  am  become  as  sounding 
brass,  or  a  tinkling  cymbal. 

" '  A7id  though  I  have  the  gift  of  prophecy,  and  under- 
stand all  mysterien,  and  all  knoivledge ;  and  though  I 
have  all  faith,  so  that  I  could  remove  mountains,  and 
have  not  charity,  1  am  nothing.^ " 

Mrs.  Gourlay's  manner  had  changed;  she  was  in  the 
high  exaltation  of  madness.  Callous  she  still  appeared, 
so  possessed  by  her  general  doom  that  she  had  no 
sense  of  its  particular  woes.  But  she  was  listless  no 
more.  Willing  her  death,  she  seemed  to  borrow  its 
greatness  and  become  one  with  the  law  that  pimished 
her.  Arrogating  the  Almighty's  function  to  expedite 
her  doom,  she  was  the  equal  of  the  Most  High.  It  was 
her  feebleness  that  made  her  great.  Because  in  her 
feebleness  she  yielded  entirely  to  the  fate  that  swept  her 
on,  she  was  imbued  with  its  demoniac  power. 

" '  Charity  suffereth  long,  and  is  kind  ;  charity  envieth 
not ;  charity  vaunteth  not  itself,  is  not  puffed  up. 

" '  Doth  not  behave  itself  unseemly,  seeketh  not  her  own, 
is  not  easily  provoked,  thinketh  no  evil ; 

" '  Rejoiceth  not  in  iniquity,  but  rejoicefh  in  the  truth  ; 

" '  Beareth  all  things,  believeth  all  things,  hopeth  all 
things,  endureth  all  things. 

"'  Charity  never  faileth :  but  whether  there  be  prophe- 
cies^ they  shall  fail ;  whether  there  be  tongues,  they  shall 
cease  ;  whether  there  be  knowledge,  it  shall  vanish  atvay. 

"  '  For  we  know  in  part,  and  we  prophesy  in  part. 

" '  But  when  that  which  is  perfect  is  come,  then  that 
which  is  in  part  shall  be  done  away.'' " 

[  323  ] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GREEN  SHUTTERS 

Her  voice  rose  high  and  shrill  as  she  read  the  great 
verses.  Her  large  blue  eyes  shone  with  ecstasy.  Janet 
looked  at  her  in  fear.  This  was  more  than  her  mother 
speaking,  it  was  more  than  human,  it  was  a  voice  from 
beyond  the  world.  Alone,  the  timid  girl  would  have 
shrunk  from  death,  but  her  mother's  inspiration  held 
her. 

"  '  A7id  now  abideth  faith,  hope,  charity,  these  three : 
hut  the  greatest  of  these  is  charity.^ " 

Janet  had  been  listening  with  such  strained  atten- 
tion that  the  "  Amen  "  rang  out  of  her  loud  and  invol- 
untary, like  an  answer  to  a  compelling  Deity.  She  had 
clung  to  this  reading  as  the  one  thing  left  to  her  before 
death,  and  out  of  her  nature  thus  strained  to  listen  the 
"  Amen  "  came,  as  sped  by  an  inner  will.  She  scarcely 
knew  that  she  said  it. 

They  rose,  and  the  scrunt  of  Janet's  chair  on  the 
floor,  when  she  pushed  it  behind  her,  sent  a  thrilling 
shiver  through  her  body,  so  tense  was  her  mood.  They 
stood  with  their  hands  on  their  chair-backs,  and  looked 
at  each  other,  in  a  curious  palsy  of  the  will.  The  first 
step  to  the  parlour  door  would  commit  them  to  the 
deed;  to  take  it  was  to  take  the  poison,  and  they  paused, 
feeling  its  significance.  To  move  was  to  give  themselves 
to  the  irrevocable.  When  they  stirred  at  length  they 
felt  as  if  the  ultimate  crisis  had  been  passed;  there  could 
be  no  return.    Mrs.  Gourlay  had  Janet  by  the  wrist. 

She  turned  and  looked  at  her  daughter,  and  for  one 
fleeting  moment  she  ceased  to  be  above  humanity. 

"  Janet,"  she  said  wistfully,  "  /  have  had  a  heap  to 
thole!    ]\Iaybe  the  Lord  Jesus  Christ'll  no'  be  owre  sair 


on  me." 


[  324  ] 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-SEVEN 


<c 


Oh,  mother!  "  Janet  screamed,  yielding  to  her  ter- 
ror when  her  mother  weakened.  "  Oh,  mother,  I'm 
feared!    I'm  feared!    Oh,  mother,  I'm  feared!  " 

"  Come!  "  said  her  mother;  "  Come!  "  and  drew  her 
by  the  wrist.    They  went  into  the  parlour. 

The  post  was  a  square-built,  bandy-legged  little  man, 
with  a  bristle  of  grizzled  hair  about  his  twisted  mouth, 
perpetually  cocking  up  an  ill-bred  face  in  the  sight  of 
Heaven.  Physically  and  morally  he  had  in  him  some- 
thing both  of  the  Scotch  terrier  and  the  London  sparrow 
— the  shagginess  of  the  one,  the  cocked  eye  of  the  other, 
the  one's  snarling  temper,  the  other's  assured  impu- 
dence. In  Gourlay's  day  he  had  never  got  by  the  gate- 
way of  the  yard,  much  as  he  had  wanted  to  come  far- 
ther. Gourlay  had  an  eye  for  a  thing  like  him.  "  Damn 
the  gurly  brute!"  Postie  complained  once;  "when  I 
passed  a  pleasand  remark  about  the  weather  the  other 
morning,  he  just  looked  at  me  and  blew  the  reek  of  his 
pipe  in  my  face.    And  that  was  his  only  answer!  " 

Now  that  Gourlay  was  gone,  however,  Postie  clattered 
through  the  yard  every  morning,  right  up  to  the  back 
door. 

"  A  heap  o'  correspondence  thir  mornins!  "  he  would 
simper — his  greedy  little  eye  trying  to  glean  revelations 
from  the  women's  faces,  as  they  took  the  letters  from  his 
hand. 

On  the  morning  after  young  Gourlay  came  home  for 
the  last  time,  Postie  was  pelting  along  with  his  quick 
thudding  step  near  the  head  of  the  Square,  when 
whom  should  he  meet  but  Sandy  Toddle,  still  unwashed 
and  yawning  from  his  bed.    It  was  early  and  the  streets 

[  335  ] 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GKEEN  SHUTTEKS 

were  empty,  except  where  in  the  distance  the  bent  figure 
of  an  old  man  was  seen  hirpling  off  to  his  work,  first 
twisting  round  stiffly  to  cock  his  eye  right  and  left  at 
the  sky,  to  forecast  the  weather  for  the  day. 

From  the  chimneys  the  fair  white  spirlies  of  reek  were 
rising  in  the  pure  air.  The  Gourlays  did  not  seem  to  be 
stirring  yet;  there  was  no  smoke  above  their  roof  tree  to 
show  that  there  was  life  within. 

Postie  jerked  his  thumb  across  his  shoulder  at  the 
House  with  the  Green  Shutters. 

"  There'll  be  chynges  there  the  day,"  he  said,  chir- 
ruping. 

"  Wha-at!  "  Toddle  breathed  in  a  hoarse  whisper  of 
astonishment,  "  sequesteration?  "  and  he  stared,  big- 
eyed,  with  his  brows  arched. 

"  Something  o'  that  kind,"  said  the  post  carelessly. 
"  I'm  no'  weel  acquaint  wi'  the  law-wers'  lingo/' 

"  Wiirt  be  true,  think  ye?  "  said  Sandy. 

"  God,  it's  true,"  said  the  post.  "  I  had  it  frae  Jock 
Hutchison,  the  clerk  in  Skeighan  Goudie's.  He  got  fou 
yestreen  on  the  road  to  Barbie  and  blabbed  it — he'll 
lose  his  job,  yon  chap,  if  he  doesna  keep  his  mouth  shut. 
— True,  aye!  It's  true!  There's  damn  the  doubt  o' 
that." 

Toddle  corrugated  his  mouth  to  whistle.  He  turned 
and  stared  at  the  House  with  the  Green  Shutters,  gawcey 
and  substantial  on  its  terrace,  beneath  the  tremulous 
beauty  of  the  dawn.    There  was  a  glorious  sunrise. 

"  God!  "  he  said,  "  what  a  downcome  for  that  hoose!  " 

"  Is  it  no'?  "  chuckled  Postie. 

"Whose  account  is  it  on?"  said  Toddle. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  ken,"  said  Postie,  carelessly.    "  He  had 

[  326  ] 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-SEYEN 

creditors  a'  owre  the  country.  I  was  aye  bringing  the 
big  blue  envelopes  from  different  airts.  Don't  mention 
this,  now,"  he  added,  his  finger  up,  his  eye  significant. 
"  It  shouldn't  be  known  at  a-all.''  He  was  unwilling 
that  Toddle  should  get  an  unfair  start,  and  spoil  his  own 
market  for  the  news. 

"  Nut  me !  "  Toddle  assured  him  grandly,  shaking  his 
head  as  who  should  conduct  of  that  kind  a  thousand 
miles  off.  "  Y«i  me,  post!  I'll  no  breathe  it  to  a  liv- 
ing soul." 

The  post  clattered  in  to  Mrs.  Gourlay's  back-door. 
He  had  a  heavy  under-stamped  letter  on  which  there 
was  threepence  to  pay.  He  might  pick  up  an  item  or 
two  while  she  was  getting  him  the  bawbees. 

He  knocked,  but  there  was  no  answer. 

"  The  sluts! "  said  he,  with  a  humph  of  disgust; 
"  they're  still  on  their  backs,  it  seems." 

He  knocked  again.  The  sound  of  his  knuckles  on  the 
door  rang  out  hollowly,  as  if  there  was  nothing  but 
emptiness  within.  While  he  waited  he  turned  on  the 
step,  and  looked  idly  at  the  courtyard.  The  enwalled 
little  place  was  curiously  still. 

At  last  in  his  impatience  he  turned  the  handle,  when 
to  his  surprise  the  door  opened,  and  let  him  enter. 

The  leaves  of  a  Bible  fluttered  in  the  fresh  wind  from 
the  door.  A  large  lamp  was  burning  on  the  table.  Its 
big  yellow  flame  was  unnatural  in  the  sunshine. 

"H'mph!"  said  Postie,  tossing  his  chin  in  disgust, 
"  little  wonder  everything  gaed  to  wreck  and  ruin  in  this 
house!  The  slovens  have  left  the  lamp  burning  the 
whole  nicht  lang.  But  less  licht'll  serve  them  now,  I'm 
thinking!  " 

[327] 


^O  ' 


THE  HOUSE  WITH  THE  GREEN  SHUTTERS 

A  few  dead  ashes  were  sticking  from  the  lower  bars 
of  the  range.  Postie  crossed  to  the  fireplace  and  looked 
down  at  the  fender.  That  bright  spot  would  be  the 
place,  now,  where  auld  Gourlay  killed  himself.  The 
women  must  have  rubbed  it  so  bright  in  trying  to  get 
out  the  blood.  It  was  an  uncanny  thing  to  keep  in  the 
house,  that.  He  stared  at  the  fatal  spot  till  he  grew 
eerie  in  the  strange  stillness. 

"Guidwife!"     he     cried,     "Jennet!       Don't     ye 
hear?  " 

They  did  not  hear,  it  seemed. 

"God!"  said  he,  "they  sleep  sound  after  all  their 
misfortunes!  " 

At  last — partly  in  impatience,  and  partly  from  a  wish 
to  pry — he  opened  the  door  of  the  parlour.  "  Oh,  my 
God!"  he  screamed,  leaping  back,  and  with  his  bulky 
bag  got  stuck  in  the  kitchen  door,  in  his  desperate  hurry 
to  be  gone. 

He  ran  round  to  the  Square  in  front,  and  down  to 
Sandy  Toddle,  who  was  informing  a  bunch  of  unshaven 
bodies  that  the  Gourlays  were  "  sequestered." 

"  Oh,  my  God,  post,  what  have  you  seen,  to  bring 
that  look  to  your  eyes?  What  have  you  seen,  man? 
Speak  for  God's  sake!    What  is  it?  " 

The  post  gasped  and  stammered — then  "  Ooh! "  he 
shivered  in  horror,  and  covered  his  eyes,  at  a  sudden 
picture  in  his  brain. 

"  Speak!  "  said  a  man  solemnly. 

"  They  have — they  have — they  have  a'  killed  them- 
selves," stammered  the  postman,  pointing  to  the  Gour- 
lays'. 

Their  loins  were  loosened  beneath  them.    The  scrape 

[328] 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-SEVEN 

of  their  feet  on  the  road,  as  they  turned  to  stare, 
sounded  monstrous  in  the  silence.  No  man  dared  to 
speak.  They  gazed  with  blanched  faces  at  the  House 
with  the  Green  Shutters,  sitting  dark  there  and  terrible, 
beneath  the  radiant  arch  of  the  dawn. 


THE  i;nd 


RECENT 
PUBLICATIONS 

of 

iHcCliire,li)tl= 
Ups  8i  Co. 

New  Yoi^k 

1901-1902 

Anthony  Hopes  New  Novel 

TRISTRAM   OF  BLENT 


IT  is  always  a  question  what  Anthony  Hope  will  do 
next.  From  a  dashing  romance  of  an  imaginary 
kingdom  to  drawing-room  repartee  is  a  leap  which 
this  versatile  writer  performs  with  the  greatest  ease.  In 
his  "Tristram  of  Blent"  he  has  made  a  new  departure, 
demonstrating  his  ability  to  depict  character  by  some 
exceedingly  delicate  and  skillful  delineation.  The  plot 
is  unique,  and  is  based  upon  the  diflference  of  time  of  the 
Russian  and  English  calendars,  by  which  a  marriage,  a 
birth,  and  the  ownership  of  lands  and  name  are  in  turn 
affected,  producing  complications  which  hurry  the  reader 
on  in  search  of  the  satisfactory  solution  which  awaits 
him.  The  Tristrams  are  characters  of  strong  individual- 
ities, of  eccentricities  likewise.  These,  coloring  all 
their  acts,  leave  the  reader  in  doubt  as  to  the  issue  ;  yet 
it  is  a  logical  story  through  and  through,  events  following- 
events  in  carefully  planned  sequence.  A  work  of  un- 
doubted originality  based  on  modern  conditions,  "Tris- 
tram of  Blent  "  proves  that  the  author  does  not  need  an 
ideal  kingdom  to  write  a  thrilling  romance.    (I'-imo,  |1.5U.) 


IRISH  PASTORALS 

By  Shan  F.  Bullock 

"  TRISH  PASTORALS"  is  a  coUection  of  character 
X  sketches  of  the  soil — of  the  Irish  soil — by  one  who 
has  lived  long  and  closely  among  the  laboring,  farming- 
peasantry  of  Ireland.  It  is  not,  however,  a  dreary  re- 
cital of  long  days  of  toil  with  scanty  food  and  no  recre- 
ation, but  it  depicts  within  a  life  more  strenuous  than 
one  can  easily  realize,  abundant  elements  of  keen  native 
wit  and  irrepressible  good  nature.  The  book  will  give 
many  American  readers  a  new  conception  of  Irish  pas- 
toral life,  and  a  fuller  appreciation  of  the  conditions  which 
go  to  form  the  strength  and  gentleness  of  the  Irish  char- 
acter.    (12mo,  $1.50.) 


THE    WESTERNERS 

By  Stewart  Edward  White 

WHEN  the  Black  Hills  were  discovered  to  be  rich 
in  valuable  ores,  there  began  that  heterogeneous 
influx  of  human  beings  which  always  follows  new-found 
wealth.  In  this  land  and  in  this  period,  Stewart  Edward 
White  has  laid  the  setting  of  "The  Westerners,"  a  story 
which  is  full  of  excitement,  beauty,  pathos  and  humor. 
A  young  girl,  growing  to  womanhood  in  a  rough  mining 
camp,  is  one  of  the  central  figures  of  the  plot.  The  other 
is  a  half-breed,  a  capricious  yet  cool,  resourceful  rascal, 
ever  occupied  in  schemes  of  revenge.  Around  these  two 
are  grouped  the  interesting  characters  which  gave  color 
to  that  rude  life,  and,  back  of  them  all,  rough  nature  in 
her  pristine  beauty.  The  plot  is  strong,  logical,  nnd  well 
sustained ;  the  characters  are  keenly  drawn ;  the  details 
cleverly  written.  Taken  all  in  all,  "The  Westerners"  is 
a  thoroughly  good  story  of  the  far  West  in  its  most  pict- 
uresque decade.     (Hrao,  fl.^O.) 


BY   BREAD   ALONE 

By  I.  K.  Friedman 

MR.  FRIEDMAN  has  chosen  a  great  theme  for  his 
new  novel,  one  which  affords  a  wealth  of  color 
and  a  wide  field  for  bold  delineation.  It  is  a  story  of  the 
steel-workers  which  introduces  the  reader  to  various  and 
little-known  aspects  of  those  toiling  lives.  In  the  course 
of  the  work  occurs  a  vivid  description  of  a  great  strike. 
The  author,  however,  shows  no  tinge  of  prejudice,  but 
depicts  a  bitter  labor  struggle  with  admirable  impartiality. 
Along  with  the  portrayal  of  some  of  man's  worst  passions 
is  that  of  his  best,  his  affection  for  woman,  forming  a 
love-story  which  softens  the  stern  picture.  The  book 
will  appeal  to  students  of  industrial  tendencies,  as  well 
as  to  every  lover  of  good  fiction.     (12mo,  $1.50.) 


HERE  are  two  volumes  of  most  thrilling  tales,  (/leaned 
from  the  material  which  the  age  has  brought  tis. 
Each  collection  occupies  an  original  field  and  depicts  some 
characteristic  pJiase  of  our  great  commercial  life. 

WALL   STREET    STORIES 

By  Edwin  Lefevre 

IT  would  be  diflBcult  to  find  a  better  setting  for  a  good 
story  than  this  hotbed  of  speculation.  On  the  Ex- 
change, every  day  is  a  day  of  excitement,  replete  with 
dangerous  risks,  narrow  escapes,  victories,  defeats.  There 
are  rascals,  "Napoleonic"  rascals,  and  the  "lambs" 
who  are  shorn ;  there  is  the  old  fight  between  right  and 
wrong,  and  sometimes  the  right  wins,  and  sometimes — 
as  the  world  goes — the  wrong.  In  the  maddening  whirl 
of  this  life,  which  he  knows  so  weO,  Edwin  Lefevre  has 
laid  the  setting  of  his  Wall  Street  stories.  A  number  of 
them  have  already  appeared  in  McClure''s  Magazine,  and 
their  well-merited  success  is  the  cause  of  publication  in 
book  form  of  this  absorbing  collection.     (12mo,  $1.25.) 

HELD    FOR    ORDERS 

STORIES  OF  RAILROAD  LIFE 
By  Frank  H.  Spearman 

WHILE  railroad  life  affords  fewer  elements  of  pas- 
sion and  emotion  than  the  life  of  Wall  Street,  it 
offers  however  a  far  greater  field  for  the  depiction  of 
the  heroic.  Deeds  of  bravery  are  probably  more  com- 
mon among  these  hardy,  cool,  resourceful  men — the  rail- 
road employees — than  among  any  other  members  of 
society.  ' '  Held  For  Orders  "  describes  thrilling  incidents 
in  the  management  of  a  mountain  division  in  the  far  West. 
The  stories  are  all  independent,  but  have  characters  in 
common,  many  of  whom  have  been  met  with  in  McClure's 
Magazine.  Mr.  Spearman  combines  the  qualities  of  a 
practical  railroad  man  with  those  of  a  fascinating  story- 
teller, and  his  tales,  both  in  subject  and  manner  of  tell- 
ing, are  something  new  in  literature.     (I2mo,  $1.50.) 


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